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The Ranch of the Thom 


An Adventure Story 


BY 

WILLIAM H. HAMBY 



CHELSEA HOUSE 
79 Seventh Avenue New York City 


P 




Copyright, 1924 
By CHELSEA HOUSE 


The R&nch of the Thorn 



(Printed in the United States of America) 

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign 
languages, including the Scandinavian. 


FE8 5 1924 ' 

©C1A777007 



*lu> 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGB 

I. A Chance Meeting. n 

II. A Partnership. 20 

III. At the Ranch. 27 

IV. Mrs. Krider Speaks. 39 

V. Seeking the Flaw. 43 

VI. Mrs. Smith Calls. 54 

VII. Senorita Maria.62 

VIII. A Midnight Ride. 73 

IX. Mr. Williams Gets Busy ... 80 

X. The Message ....... 84 

XI. Blanco Sticks.88 

XII. Distrust. 93 

XIII. A Setback. 104 

XIV. Bluff!. 113 

XV. Neal Takes Possession . . . . 119 

XVI. In Accordance with the Law . 127 

XVII. Inside News. 130 
















CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XVIII. A Friendly Warning . ... 141 

XIX. Neal Progresses.152 

XX. Paper Money.162 

XXI. The Owner of the Ranch . . 175 

XXII. Doomed!.186 

XXIII. Blanco Has a Hunch .... 191 

XXIV. Trouble Ahead.203 

XXV. Love Letters.209 

XXVI. The Army Arrives.221 

XXVII. Revolution !.229 

XXVIII. On the Trail.238 

XXIX. The Presidente’s Special . . . 245 

XXX. Strategy Wins ...... 251 

XXXI. The Canon of the Moon . . . 258 

XXXII. The Flight.264 

XXXIII. In the Enemy’s Camp .... 275 

XXXIV. The Avenging Shot .... 281 

XXXV. Saved!.288 

XXXVI. An Unexpected Rebuff . . . 292 

XXXVII. Mrs. Krider Visits.298 

XXXVIII. Under the Starlight .... 306 














THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

CHAPTER I 

A CHANCE MEETING 

PVAWN breaks clear in Cordoba. The American 
was up early and came out on the wide veranda 
and stood looking down at the quaint old Mexican 
city. 

He was a slender young man of twenty-eight or 
thirty, with thick brown hair and gray eyes, and 
he wore a light gray suit and a green silk tie. He 
had arrived at the Gran Hotel Zeballos the evening 
before and registered as Neal Ashton. 

Life had just begun to stir in the still drowsy 
town. Three burros loaded with wood came down 
the middle of the street, their hoofs clicking loudly 
on the cobbled paving. A Mexican woman with a 
red manton about her head and shoulders crossed 
the plaza, a dark, thin old man passed on the 
opposite side carrying a long pole with a cluster 
of feathers at the end—a window duster. 

The deep bells of the cathedral across from the 
plaza boomed slowly, incessantly. From narrow 
streets and byways came scattering worshipers, 


12 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


mostly women in black, walking with silent feet, 
and heads bent as though carrying many sorrows. 
Like ghosts of the night that have lingered over- 
long, they slipped quickly into the shadowy door¬ 
way of the great church. 

The first glint of the sun struck the the tops 
of the houses slantingly and touched the rank tropical 
foliage massed beyond the edge of town. Neal 
clutched the veranda rail with his fingers and his 
chest swelled with a deep, long-drawn breath. 

A Ford came rattling fretfully up the cobbled 
street from toward the station and stopped in front 
of the hotel. 

A single passenger got out. He was also an 
American, but his clothes, his air of familiarity with 
the place, and the gun on his hip indicated that he 
had been in Mexico some time. He entered the 
hotel, came up the stairway, and walked down the 
long veranda, looking at the numbers above the 
doors. All the rooms on the second floor opened 
out upon this veranda. He did not speak to 
Neal, but in passing gave him an investigating side 
glance. 

At number fourteen he knocked and a big voice 
from inside called out something in Spanish, which 
evidently meant its owner would be out directly, 
as the newly arrived American turned back and 
dropped down into one of the wicker rocking-chairs 
on the veranda, pushed back his Stanley hat, crossed 


A CHANCE MEETING 


13 


his legs and lighted a cigar. He had a large head 
with wavy, sandy-colored hair, small blue eyes, set 
close together, almost colorless eyebrows, a wide 
mouth, and a nose that sagged down in the bridge, 
but swelled out at the end like the head of a spread¬ 
ing adder. 

The door of room fourteen opened and a Mexican 
came out. There are as many sorts of Mexicans 
as there are Americans. This one was the large, 
strutting type—a huge man with great arms, thick 
neck, and swelling chest. He wore puttees, and 
trousers beaded down the seams, a silk shirt and 
a leather vest ornamented with silver. The vest 
was open. He had thick lips and large, insolent 
black eyes. Around his huge girth was a highly 
decorative cartridge belt, and a blatant gun rested 
on each hip. 

The American greeted him with a half mocking: 

“Buenos dias, Senor Moses,” and motioned for 
him to draw up a chair. 

But the Mexican glanced inquiringly toward Neal, 
who still leaned on the banister and curiously but 
idly watched the color and movement of this strange 
city. The other American shook his head and 
shrugged indifferently. But the Mexican did not 
seem satisfied, and approached Neal. 

“Buenos dias, senor. Habla usted espanol?” 

Ashton, who had been watching him out of the 


14 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


corner of his eye, turned and lifted his brows and 
shook his head uncomprehendingly. 

“Espense me!’ The big Mexican bowed, and 
returning to the chair by the other American, sat 
down, lighted a cigarette and began a conversation 
in Spanish. Neal watched him with keen interest. 
He may be a Mexican in good and regular standing, 
he thought, but at least one of his ancestors was 
an apostate Slav. 

The conversation went on in Spanish, and Ashton 
turned his attention away. 

“When did you come, Senor Williams ?” asked 
the Mexican. 

“This morning,” answered Williams. “An early 
train from Mexico City. How is the ranch ?” 

“It is getting on.” The Mexican shrugged in¬ 
differently. 

“My agent has sold it again,” announced Wil¬ 
liams. “That is why I stopped to see you.” 

Senor Moses grinned. “I hope it is not a woman 
this time—the hell cats.” 

Senor Williams flecked at a fly with his fore¬ 
finger, but did not smile. 

“No—an easy sucker this time. By the way, what 
became of the red-haired widow from Arkansas?” 

“Oh,” the Mexican smirked and winked, “she’s 
my housekeeper now. She eat out of my hand— 
or lick my boots.” 

The American shook his head sadly. “Moses, 


A CHANCE MEETING 


15 


you are a wonder—also a devil. Well, ,, he 
arose and threw the remainder of his cigarette 
over the banister, “this new gringo owner will 
probably be along in a couple of weeks. The tele¬ 
gram did not mention his name, but said he was 
soft. When you see him you will know what to 
do with him. I’ll stay out of it, unless you need 
help.” 

The Mexican grinned sardonically. “The senor 

will not be bothered over so small a matter.” 

“What time is Valdez coming?” 

“Early, he promises.” And Espinosa got up and 
looked down the street to the south as though 
he expected him any minute. 

As Neal finished breakfast the hotel porter ap¬ 
proached his table and with a respectful gesture 
made known that the horse which he had ordered 
was outside. Neal nodded that he understood and 
with a smile expressed his thanks. Within an 
hour after his arrival last evening, the clerk, the 
porter, the waiters, everybody about the hotel had 
changed their idea of Americans. Although he 
had not spoken a word of Spanish, they had quickly 
caught his friendly spirit. He considered them 
human beings—and instead of swearing at them 
for not doing things his way, he was interested in 
their way, in their country, in them. 

The sun was two hours high as Neal rode south 
from the city. The rank, tropical foliage lined the 


16 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

road, with here and there a grass but half hidden 
reminding him of Kipling’s India. It gave him 
the unreal sense of being in another world. 

A delicious odor filled the air—something in 
bloom, for it was spring here even as in the North 
from whence he came. The air was delicious, for 
he was two thousand feet above the sea. Off to 
the west rose the magnificent, terrific old Orizaba 
which thrust its snowy crest seventeen thousand feet 
into the tropic sky. 

He passed some donkey wood carriers—two Mexi¬ 
cans driving six burros loaded with wood. He met 
an Indian leading a burro which seemed almost 
submerged under bundles of sugar cane; a little 
farther on, another bringing to market two square 
boxes of corn, and, trudging behind, a woman carry¬ 
ing an earthen jar on her head. As far down the 
road as he could see, they were coming, one, two 
or three at a time, patient, offenseless. And he had 
expected to find Mexico bristling with danger! Noth¬ 
ing could be more colorful, or more peaceful than 
this. 

At the bottom of a little hill he came upon a 
Mexican boy—a slender, dark-eyed lad of seven 
or eight—in trouble. The donkey he had been 
leading had slipped its load, and struggle as he 
might, the small chap could not get it back. He 
was in deep distress, but making no outcry for help. 

Neal dismounted. “Hello, son,” he said in 


A CHANCE MEETING 


1 7 


English. “What’s the trouble ?” The lad did not 
get a word of the English, but he did get the 
sympathetic boy-understanding twinkle of the gray 
eyes. His troubles were fled in a moment, he smiled 
broadly at the stranger, and gesticulatingly recited 
how the catastrophe had happened. 

While Neal was adjusting the pack, two riders 
on very fine saddle horses came cantering up the 
road. Neal glanced up at them as they approached, 
and nothing he had seen in this colorful land gave 
him quite such a stir. Spain may have lost her 
glory, but wherever her blood flows through the 
veins, there is a lift of the head and a look of the 
eye that cannot be mistaken. 

The man was a Spaniard—and a gentleman, 
straight, fine of features, and commanding of eye. 
The girl, his daughter, perhaps. They drew rein. 
It was curious no doubt to see an American help 
a peon boy reload a donkey. The man asked some¬ 
thing in Spanish. 

Neal, the work finished, turned and lifted his hat: 

“Do you speak Engish?” 

The Spaniard returned the friendly smile. “Very 
leetle. Es there some trouble ?” 

“No, everything is all right now.” His eyes went 
to the girl—met hers for three fleeting seconds and 
then looked away hastily, as though afraid to stay. 
Neal did not know that in Spanish countries, in¬ 
stead of an affront, it is a compliment for a man 


18 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

to look as straight and long and ardently as he 
pleases at a woman. But he had seen enough to 
remember for many a day. Limpid dark eyes, dark 
hair with a glint of golden brown in it, a face 
fair—the white flame of centuries of Spanish beauty. 

“Can you tell me,” Neal had looked back at the 
man, “if this is the right road to the Ranch of the 
Thorn?” 

The Spaniard wrinkled his brow, trying to puzzle 
out the English of the question. Neal was glad he 
did not understand quickly—it prolonged the con¬ 
versation. Once again his eyes slipped against every 
effort of his will, to the girl, and again he met her 
gaze squarely. She smiled a faint, but very human 
smile, turned and said something to her father in 
Spanish. 

“Ah!” The Spaniard’s face cleared, his eyes 
lighted as they do when they solve a puzzle for 
you. “The Rancho Huisache—The Thorn Tree— 
muy bien! Si, si,” and he pointed on down the 
road, and indicated a left-hand turn. 

Neal once more looked with a sort of haste at 
the senorita. She must have understood English 
to explain to her father. “Do you speak English?” 
he asked her direct. 

“No, no,” she gave her head a positive shake. 
“A ver’ leetle, but I wesh I speak it, muy bien. ,J 

As they rode away Neal turned to the Mexican 


A CHANCE MEETING 


19 


boy and with a lift of the eyebrows and a nod 
inquired who they were. 

“Senor Valdez.” The boy threw out his arms. 
“Mucho grande!” 

“And you?” asked Neal. 

“Jose Marquard,” and he shook his head with a 
grimace. “No mucho buano —not much good. 

Neal mounted his horse, laughing, then turned in 
his saddle to watch the two riders down the road 
until they were lost behind the banana fields. He 
rode on in a sort of trance. She was amazinglj 
lovely! Three hours later he drew rein and lookeu 
down into the valley before him. 

“The Hacienda of the Thorn,” he said slowly. 
“This is it.” 

Four thousand acres of coffee in bloom—a mass 
of blossoms as white as the snows on Orizaba. 

“It can’t be mine,” he said still dazedly. “It is 
not real. I am not here. Buckeye Bridge, Missouri 
—Cordoba, Mexico! It is a long jump, too long 
to ever jump back. Good-by, Buckeye Bridge!” 

Chanting “On the Road to Mandalay,” he rode 
down to his new possessions. 


CHAPTER II 


A PARTNERSHIP 

S ENOR VALDEZ asked his daughter, Senorita 
Maria, to wait in the parlor of the Gran 
Hotel Zeballos while he talked with two gentlemen 
on business affairs. The Spaniard still held to the 
old traditions for his womenfolks—although in¬ 
sensibly those traditions had been slipping. 
Somehow the women took a tiny bit more liberty 
every year—just enough so that no one break was 
a positive shock to his sense of propriety. This 
habit of Maria’s for instance, of riding about with 
him wherever he went was not quite ladylike, yet 
it was decidedly pleasant to have her along, for 
Maria made any journey interesting by her merry 
fooling, and her quick observations. 

But scarcely ten minutes after Senor Valdez had 
left Maria safely and properly seated in the parlor, 
she appeared on the upstairs veranda, and approached 
most demurely where the three men were seated. 

Senor Valdez arose; a slightly displeased flush 
crossed his thin face, yet he bowed graciously to 
his daughter. Senor Moses also was on his feet, 
bowing with his right hand over his heart. But 
the American, with the nose that swelled at the 


A PARTNERSHIP 21 

end like an adder’s head, kept his seat—and his cigar 
in his mouth. 

“Senor Espinosa,” Valdez said with a slight in¬ 
clination of the head, “you know my daughter.” 

“I have that very great pleasure.” The big Mexi¬ 
can again bowed, and his large black eyes seemed 
to fairly stroke her cheeks and neck. 

“My daughter, Maria, Senor Williams.” The 
father had turned to the American. Williams merely 
straightened up a little in his chair and nodded 
with a smirk which he intended for a smile. 

“Hello, sis. Do you savvy good old U S. A.?” 

Senorita Maria’s eyebrows lifted the fraction of 
an inch, her black eyes looked very distant and im¬ 
personal. 

“No Ingles, senor.” 

Senorita Maria, with a fetching little twist of her 
dark head, begged her father’s pardon for the inter¬ 
ruption. “The parlor was so warm—and smell 
like goats. I come up for a breath of air.” She 
walked over to a wicker rocking-chair twenty feet 
away, and sat down with an air of content. Espinosa 
followed her and drew up another chair and began 
a spirited conversation in Spanish. 

Valdez looked after him with a frown, but turned 
in a moment politely to Senor Williams. 

“What I wanted to see you about,” began the 
American in fluent but choppy Spanish, “is this. 
I’ve got large interests down here, you know, and 


22 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


I’m interested in the government even if I am a 
damned gringo.” 

‘T have heard of the senor’s interests.” Valdez’s 
face was politely nonexpressive. 

“I am investing a pile of money down here,” 

went on the American, “and I’ve got a right to 
demand some consideration.” 

Senor Valdez remained politely silent. If he had 
mentioned what he heard about the Senor Williams’ 
investments in Mexico, it would not have been 
complimentary. 

“If you people would back up fellows like me,” 
went on Williams, swelling out his chest, “we’d 

wake this damned country up.” 

An ironic smile crossed the Spaniard’s face. 
“Ah, senor, if you had heard so much bang, bang 

as I, the past few years you would pray the holy 

saints that the country would go to sleep instead 
of waking more.” 

“What I am getting at,” said Williams, who much 
preferred to do the talking himself, “is this.” He 
leaned forward in his chair, chin thrust out, the 
nostrils in the bulbous nose spreading. “I’ve got 
a big thing on foot—the biggest any man ever 
thought of in Mexico. This ranch, the silver mine, 
the oil concessions—are mere trifles compared to it. 

“But Carranza is sore at the Americans. Per¬ 
sonally I am for him, but he won’t take anything 
from an American right now. While you, I under- 


A PARTNERSHIP 


23 


stand, are a pretty high-muck-a-muck with all the 
old-timers down here, and have a lot of influential 
relations at court and in office. 

“Of course there is no use in beating about the 
bush. I know as well as you do, they are all 
damned grafters. They have all got their hands 
out. And Pm willing to pay, but I want to get 
the goods when I pay. 

“They tell me you are rather short on dinero 
yourself. Now, if you’ll take this paper and get 
old Carranza to sign on the dotted line, I’ll give 
you ten thousand pesos.” 

Williams settled back in his chair with an air 
of finality, and gave Senor Valdez a look of 
dramatic benevolence. It was a great offer, and 
he was proud of it and he’d put it straight. 

The Spaniard’s dark eyes looked off across the 
plaza. His face was entirely unreadable, but his 
tone was very polite. 

“The senor does me the honor of overestimating 
my influence with the government. But if he 
wishes to leave his paper in my possession I will 
examine it, and in due order will present it to the 
proper officials for consideration.” 

“I don’t get much out of that,” said Williams, 
biting the butt of his newly lighted cigar. “What 
I want is action, not consideration.” 

“Perhaps, then,” suggested Senor Valdez, “the 
senor should present it himself to the presidente.” 


24 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“Hell, no!” blurted Williams. “I don’t want to 
get my head shot off. That is not the sort of 
action I’m after. 

“Now, I’ve got the money, if that is what is 
troubling you. I put ten thousand dollars gold in 
the bank at Mexico City yesterday. The first 
payment on my ranch which I have just sold.” 

“If the senor wishes,” repeated Valdez, “I shall 
be pleased to examine his papers, and see in what 
way they may best be presented.” 

A gleam of satisfaction came into Williams’ 
eye. “Ah, ha,” he thought. “Now I have him 
—they can’t any of them resist real money.” 

The papers were turned over, and Senor Val¬ 
dez and his daughter took their departure. 

Williams watched the senorita’s back as she 
turned down the stairs. He moistened his lips 
and shook his head. 

“Some peach, Moses, some peach—or perhaps 
you would say a mango.” 

The big Mexican scowled, but his face changed 
to an obsequious smirk as the American turned 
upon him. 

“She’s got you hooked, Moses, I could see that 
with half an eye. You’d give the gold out of 
your teeth for a finger ring for her. 

“But see here. There is only one way to get 
her, that is to handle the old man. She ain’t 
strong for you, Moses. I don’t want to trample 


A PARTNERSHIP 


25 


your pride, but I watched when you was talking 
to her. I know the signs. She likes you just 
about as well as a chicken does a weasel. If you 
are to get her, and I’m to get my millions, we’ve 
got to pull together. Sit down.” 

They sat down and lighted cigarettes. Senor 
Espinosa looked off down the street as the hoofs 
of two horses clattered along the cobbled paving. 
His eyes narrowed, and filled with fire as he 
watched the very graceful figure of Senorita Maria, 
riding teasingly close beside her father. 

“Senor Moses,” Williams spoke with the deliber¬ 
ateness in which he always approached a fresh plot, 
“there is talk of another revolution?” 

“Much talk, senor.” 

“Who is it to be?” 

“Oh, any one, senor.” 

“Very well,” said Williams. “Valdez is a friend 
of Carranza’s—if the old reptile ever had a friend. 
You be a friend to this new revolution, whoever 
starts it, and that way we’ll land, no matter who 
wins.” 

“Si, si” said Moses, “perhaps with our backs 
against the wall.” 

“Not for me,” said Williams. “I’m an Ameri¬ 
can citizen—they won’t shoot me.” 

“It has been done, senor,” said the big Mexican 
rather boastfully. 

“So it has.” Williams was thinking quite soberly. 


26 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“Well, you watch the kettle boil, and jump where 
there is the least fire. I’ll stay neutral/’ Williams 
waved his hand. “Better trot on back to the ranch 
now. And remember when that new lamb who 
thinks he has bought it arrives, make it interest¬ 
ing for him.” 

“Si, senor. Adios,” and he hastened away, as 
though to overtake the two riders just gone. 


CHAPTER III 


AT THE RANCH 

/^N the right-hand side was the coffee field, on the 
left sugar cane. Forty or fifty men were work¬ 
ing in the cane field, stripping, cutting and loading 
the cane on the two-wheeled oxcarts. 

Neal hitched his horse to the fence, and went 
across to the cane cutters. The Mexicans were 
wielding big, broad-bladed knives, almost as heavy 
as machetes; and a handful of cane went down with 
each clip. 

“Do you speak English ?” he asked an Indian 
with black, matted hair, and white cotton trousers. 

“No entende.” The Mexican shook his head. 

“Don’t understand, eh?” Neal smiled, and showed 
curiosity as to the cane knife. The Indian handed 
it to him, and Neal swung it into the cane. 

“Sure cuts.” He nodded approvingly as he 
handed it back. The Mexican was instantly friendly; 
and motioned Neal to follow. At the far end of 
the line of cutters he brought him up to a dark- 
skinned back wading into the cane with long sweeps 
of his knife. 

“Do you speak English?” Neal repeated the ques¬ 
tion. 


28 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


The cane cutter dropped his knife so quickly it 
barely missed his sandled foot, and turned facing 
the white man. 

“I shore does.” 

He was black as a charcoal pit, and as large 
as the Mexican Neal had seen at the hotel that 
morning. 

“What are you doing down here?” Neal gave 
the black man a compatriot’s grin. “From Georgia?” 

“No, sah.” The colored man returned the friendly 
grin most beamingly. “I’s a Mississippi nigger. 
Dunno just how I did get down heah, but I’s ramblin’ 
roun’ and here I got. I’s a bad nigger, too.” He 
put on a belligerent scowl. “What you doin’ down 
here, white man?” 

“Rambling around,” replied Neal, grinning the 
more at the negro’s sudden ferocious look. “Quit 
your work for a while; I want you to show me 
over the ranch; I’ll make it right with the boss; 
I know him well.” 

The negro stepped forward willingly. “There 
ain’t nothin’ I’d ruther do than quit work. Which 
way, boss?” 

“Let us go over into the coffee field first. What 
do they call you?” 

“Blanco,” grinned the negro. “That’s cause I’s 
so white.” 

“Is there any one else about the ranch that speaks 


AT THE RANCH 29 

English?” asked Neal as they crossed the road into 
the coffee fields. 

“There shore is,” replied Blanco. “That there 
Missus Krider down there at the house can talk 
English—and she can talk a powerful lot of it.” 
The nigger shook his head as though he would 
like to forget some of it. 

“Who is Mrs Krider?” 

“Who, her? Who’s Mrs. Krider? Why she’s 
the woman that—she’s—Mrs. Krider that come from 
Arkansas.” 

It was late in the afternoon when Neal rode down 
to the hacienda, and met Mrs. Krider personally. 

The buildings covered nearly ten acres, and were 
laid out in a rectangle. An adobe wall, nearly two 
feet thick, and ten feet high, inclosed the whole 
square like a fort. This continuous wall formed 
the back of all the buildings, which opened inward 
on the square or plazuela. At the front on the south 
the buildings rose thirty or forty feet—two stories 
high—with long, wide verandas, upstairs and down; 
and a high arched entrance through which teams 
or horsemen could pass into the inner court. This 
was the house proper, the home of the owner, the 
dwelling place of the superintendent and the various 
officials of the hacienda. 

As Neal entered the wide, spacious hall, he felt 
a bit awed, but a thrilling sense of pride made him 
draw a deeply satisfied breath as he glanced about. 


30 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Three or four Mexican maids passed in and out, 
giving him a look, but asked no questions. A 
Mexican woman with a mop and pail came from 
a big room to the left—the dining room. Neal 
spoke to her in English. She shook her head, and 
said something in Spanish, then set down her pail, 
dropped the mop and hurried off toward the inner 
court. A few minutes later she returned, smiling 
triumphantly in the wake of a white woman with 
red hair. 

“What are you doing here?” The red-haired one 
shot the question so sharply at Neal that he jumped. 

“There is no doubt about your speaking English.” 
He smiled good-naturedly. But the scowl only 
sharpened on her features, the muscles of her neck 
swelled and her greenish blue eyes bored coldly into 
this casual American. 

“I said what are you doing here?” She put em¬ 
phasis on each separate word. 

“I merely dropped in.” Neal would have been 
abashed, if it had not been for the big, romantic 
secret he was holding back. He would not tell 
them he owned the ranch until later. 

“I’m tired of American grafters dropping in.” 
She spoke with a cutting edge to her voice. “They 
are scum of the earth.” 

Neal looked at her openly for a moment. She 
was not, if one could forget her belligerency, at all 


AT THE RANCH 


3i 


bad looking. Wiry, strong, but rather softened 
here and there by a faint plumpness. 

“You seem to have a pleasant disposition,” he 
said, lifting his eyebrows. 

“No, I haven’t,” she snapped. “I have a hell of 
a disposition, and I’ve got a right to it! If you’ve 
got any business here, be talkin’ it. If you haven’t, 
get out!” 

“I’d hate to get out so soon, for I’ve come a 
long ways.” 

“From where?” The first of the world’s curiosity 
was to know from whence a wanderer came. 

“Buckeye Bridge, Missouri. Ever hear of it?” 

“No, but no matter what it’s like, you was a 
fool for leaving it.” 

“That is what they all said.” Neal was again 
smiling good-humoredly with that astonishing secret 
cuddled up close to his tongue. “Sit down,” he 
motioned to a chair, “I want to talk to you.” 

“I haven’t any time to sit down,” she snapped, 
but sat down, and rubbed a corner of her apron 
between the palms of her hands. She was un¬ 
doubtedly curious to know more of this mild, quiet 
chap who did not cringe nor run at her first bark. 

“What did you come for?” She again assumed 
the offensive. 

“To get here and to get away from Buckeye 
Bridge,” he answered soberly. 

“You see,” he went on, “one time when I was 


32 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


riding in from the hills just after dark, I passed 
a farmhouse. It was spring. The doors were open. 
There was a star over the hill to the west and a 
wind from the south—all at once I smelled coffee. 
Do you know that smell when you are hungry 
and sort of lonesome? I decided then and there 
some day I’d see coffee growing; I thought it 
would be sort of romantic.” 

Mrs. Krider gave a violent snort. “Romantic!” 

“And then, too,” Neal rubbed his left jaw, “ten 
or fifteen years ago when I was a boy, the lightning 
struck the cupola of the Methodist church, and 
knocked it askew—and they never fixed it. I got 
tired of looking at it.” 

The snappishness went out of the red-headed 
widow’s eyes and she began to grin half sheepishly. 

“We are all fools,” she spoke as though looking 
back a long way, “damn fools. And that is why 
you ran away from Buckeye Bridge and came 
all the way to Cordoba?” 

Neal nodded. “Yes, that is why I bought the 
Ranch of the Thorn.” 

“Bought it?” She was on her feet, her face paled, 
her nostrils twitching. “Good heavens, you haven’t 
bought this ranch?” 

“Yes. Why not?” 

But she turned and almost ran from the room. 

A little later a Mexican girl appeared. 

“No English?” he asked. 



AT THE RANCH 


33 

“A leetle.” She showed white teeth. “Missus 
say show you room.” 

The room to which the maid showed Neal was 
large, eighteen by twenty-four feet perhaps. One 
door opened out on the upstairs veranda, another 
onto an inner balcony that overlooked the patio. 
The walls were plastered and the floor tiled. Al¬ 
though the house was perhaps a hundred and fifty 
years old, the workmanship was excellent. The 
spacious room seemed almost empty—a bed, two 
chairs, a small table upon which was a coal-oil 
lamp. And yet it did not seem bare. Neal thought 
that he was going to like it that way—plenty of 
room and no useless clutter. 

He went out on the veranda It was near sun¬ 
down. Along the little river two hundred yards 
to the south, the rank, tropical foliage showed a 
mass of dark green; and to the southwest the light 
glowed deep red on the snowy crest of Mount 
Orizaba. 

Neal thrust his thumbs into his vest pockets and 
walked up and down the long veranda. The outside 
wall had been stuccoed, but he noticed it thickly 
pockmarked by holes—hundreds of them. “That is 
curious.” He turned to the wall and examined 
one of the holes, and gave a long, surprised whistle. 
He was quite sober as he resumed his walk back 
and forth, but directly began to grin. 


34 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“Bullets, by gad! There has been action here, 
all right.” 

Then as the long shadow of the mountains fell 
quickly across the valley, and the tropic dusk came 
on as though fairly tumbled from the black ban 
of night, he repeated still grinningly: 

“Cheer, and we’ll never march to victory, 

Cheer, and we’ll never live to hear the cannons roar. 
The large birds of prey 
They will carry us away 

And you’ll never see your soldier any more.” 

He stopped and rested his hands on the banister, 
and looked into the tropic dusk. A faint star 
gleamed; a wild parrakeet screamed from a mango 
tree. 

What a strange transformation from the old 
life. If he had died and his soul gone to another 
planet it could not have been more strange. And 
yet he felt at home—the softness of the night, 
the heavy fragrance in the air, this ancient Spanish 
home—all of it seemed natural. 

Almost since he could remember he had carried 
the romance of some Spanish country in his desires. 
All his life in Buckeye Bridge he had read of 
caballeros and dreamed of senoritas. And as he 
went back and forth along the drab street of that 
little country town, the dust-grimed window of 
“Bud” Peeler’s pool hall, the grease-streaked front 


AT THE RANCH 


35 


of Jake’s restaurant, the unpainted frame harness shop 
—all the listless, stale matter-of-factness of the place 
had eaten into his spirit like canker rust; and he 
had vowed some day to get away. 

But with Neal a desire did not end with a vow. 
He began definite preparations for it. When his 
father left him five thousand dollars six years 
ago, he saved it, carefully invested it, and worked 
hard until it was doubled. Then out of a clear 
sky came the amazing opportunity, the chance of all 
chances. A wonderful old estate right in the heart 
of the coffee country in Mexico, the very spot on 
which his romancing had centered, was offered him 
at a great bargain; and he had bought the Ranch 
of the Thorn—unseen! 

Now he was here ready to take possession of it. 
He smiled as he turned away from the banister. 
It must be nearly supper time. On an impulse he 
had told Mrs. Krider he was the new owner—he 
had intended to keep the secret longer. But he 
had another surprise which he would spring on them 
in due time. 

Ever since he knew he was coming to Mexico 
some time—and that had been ten years ago, he 
had been studying Spanish. He learned it himself 
so that he could read it as well as English. Then he 
rode twenty miles time after time to talk with 
the only Mexican he knew of in the Ozarks. But 
that was not enough. He got phonographic records 


36 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


of the language, and corrected his pronunciation 
from them. He would need to adapt it, and practice 
speaking it, but even now he could understand 
almost everything he heard. For instance he had 
understood quite well the conversation between that 
grafting American and the big Villa-looking Mexican 
at the hotel that morning He got enough to be 
sure they were plotting some rascality. He gathered 
they were going to swindle some American on a 
ranch deal. Neal was glad he had taken careful 
precaution. 

And the conversation between the senorita and 
her father on the road—he understood every word. 
It was beyond belief that on this, his first day 
he should have met her, the very incarnation of all 
romantic dreams of Spanish beauty. 

The maid who had shown him his room appeared 
on the veranda. 

“Cena, senor 

She led him down the stone stairs, to the big 
dining room that opened off the hall. 

On a Mexican hacienda most of the peons pro¬ 
vide their own huts, and all of them their own 
living. But the administrator, his field superintend¬ 
ents, and even some of the skilled machinists live 
in the big house. 

There were fourteen of them, seated at the long 
table as Neal entered. They were all Mexicans 
except two or three of the sugar men who were 


AT THE RANCH 


37 


Cubans. A big Mexican sat at the head of the 
table, and there was a vacant chair at his right 
and left. 

Almost at the moment Neal entered from the 
hall, Mrs. Krider entered from the kitchen door, 
and came briskly up to the chair at the left. All 
of them arose at Neal’s approach, and the big 
Mexican turned to greet him. 

“Senor Espinosa,” Mrs. Krider said jerkily, “this 
is Senor Ashton.” 

Neal felt a vast misgiving open under him sud¬ 
denly—like a man who jumps and finds the net 
is gone. 

Senor Espinosa was the big Mexican of the hotel. 

Neal shook hands and took the chair with a sick¬ 
ening effort to believe this Mexican Moses and the 
rascally American had been talking of some other 
ranch and some other sucker. 

After supper Senor Espinosa invited Neal out into 
the patio, and Mrs. Krider came along. The patio 
was beautiful, but undoubtedly had been badly neg¬ 
lected. The flowers and potted plants and the two 
small trees were scraggly from want of water. He 
could guess that Mrs. Krider would not care much 
for patios. 

The three were seated. The Mexican offered Neal 
a cigarette which he declined. Lighting one himself, 
he turned to Mrs. Krider and asked in Spanish 
if she knew what the American was there for. 


38 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Mrs. Krider’s face looked sharp as the edge of a 
machete in the lamplight, and she replied in Spanish 
that she did not know what he was there for, but 
supposed perhaps he was a sugar buyer. 

Neal understood perfectly, and was grateful to 
Mrs. Krider. Maybe he would have a chance to 
get onto their game before they knew who he was. 

Mrs. Krider left them, and Espinosa talked in 
broken English with his visitor. Neal made inquiries 
about sugar and coffee, and ranch products in gen¬ 
eral, leaving the impression of the Mexican that 
Mrs. Krider’s guess had been right. But he saw 
the Mexican was rather suspicious and did not look 
upon his stay at the ranch with favor. 

Neal said good night to Espinosa and went up 
to his room. He sat on the veranda in front of 
his door until nearly midnight. He had just gone 
into the room with the thought of turning in when 
there was a light knock on the inner door. He 
opened it with a degree of caution. 

It was Mrs. Krider with a shawl thrown over 
her head and shoulders like a Mexican woman. 

“Go to-morrow,” she whispered, “and take the 
first train, and never come back, you poor damn 
fool!” 


CHAPTER IV 


MRS. KRIDER SPEAKS 

XTEAL fastened both doors of his room and lay 
down across the bed with his clothes on, his shoes 
sticking out over the edge through the mosquito 
netting. Mrs. Krider’s warning meant one of two 
things: Either she was helping the Mexican scare 
him out, or else he was in danger while on the ranch. 

For three hours he went over in his mind every 
step of the transaction. He had seen the advertise¬ 
ment of the ranch in a St. Louis paper, and had 
written an inquiry. That led to his acquaintance 
with Dickman. Dickman had seemed most open 
and fair—and Neal had observed, so he thought, 
every precaution. He had even sent the papers to 
a different Mexican lawyer than the one Dickman 
suggested and that lawyer had reported everything 
perfectly legal and in form. Also he had slipped 
off and come down here two weeks earlier than 
Dickman had expected. 

Surely there was nothing wrong, and yet he per¬ 
sisted in recalling rascally transactions in real estate 
right at home, even in that most moral and sus¬ 
picious village of Buckeye Bridge, of the most in¬ 
vestigating of States—Missouri. 


40 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


If that could happen, how many more chances 
there were for fraud in a foreign country under 
a doubtful administration. 

At breakfast Senor Espinosa was most solicitous 
as to how Senor Ashton had slept. And he was 
suavely apologetic over the impossibility of his going 
with Neal to Cordoba that morning. There was 
trouble in the cane field, and it was most important 
that he stay on the ranch that day. But Senor 
Ashton’s horse was ready. Neal had not expressed 
a desire to have his horse ready, but it suited his 
plans well. 

Neal waited until Moses had gone to the fields, 
and then he went out into the court where Mrs. 
Krider was driving a dozen Mexican women to 
greater speed in hand picking twenty bags of frijoles 
that were to be sent to market. 

“Mrs. Krider,” Neal spoke in a low voice, “I 
want to see you at once. Come up to the veranda 
in a few minutes, opposite my room.” 

Mrs. Krider sharply invited him to go take a 
bath in sulphur and brimstone, and went on with 
her work. But Neal returned to his room and placed 
two chairs just outside the door on the veranda, 
and sat down on one of them. He had to wait 
only four minutes. 

' “Get inside your room, you fool,” she said sharply. 
“Do you want to get me killed, too?” 

Neal put the chairs back in his room, and closed 


MRS. KRIDER SPEAKS 


4i 


the door that opened on the inner balcony. Mrs. 
Krider walked the length of the veranda as though 
inspecting the work of cleaning the rooms, returned 
and stepped inside Neal’s and dropped into a chair. 

“Now, what is it?” She spoke angrily. 

“What is up?” Neal asked. 

“'One fool up and another down,” she replied. 

“How was I cheated in buying this ranch?” 

“How do I know?” she snapped. 

“You know everything.” Neal was frowning, and 
his gray eyes were seriously insistent. “What about 
it?” 

“All I know,” she gave her muscular neck a jerk 
that shook a wisp of red hair across her forehead, 
“is that all men are rascals and liars—and you are 
probably the biggest of them all.” 

“Mrs. Krider,” Neal spoke very soberly and looked 
steadily into the greenish-blue eyes, “I don’t doubt 
but you have suffered at the hands of man and ill 
fortune. But you know that I have a right to what 
I ask, and you know I would not betray those who 
befriend me” 

Mrs. Krider gave her elbow a sharp jerk. Her 
face grew very red; she bit her lip, as though on the 
point of a violent outbreak. Instead she clutched 
the corner of her apron and gave her eyes a hard, 
angry swipe, taking away a couple of tears. 

“Oh, I’m a miserable fool to ever believe any of 


42 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

them,” she said as though to herself, “but I can’t 
help it. 

“Here’s all I know about it,” she began in a 
rapid, acidulous tone: 

“There have been seven people bought this ranch 
in the last ten years—all of them paid at least $10,- 
ooo down. Not one of them ever had possession 
more than two months. Most of them not a day. 
Did you notice those two wooden crosses down there 
by the river?” 

He nodded. 

“Two owners who came to take possession. One 
of them was the man that brought me down here.” 

“How do they get rid of them?” Neal felt him¬ 
self growing sick. 

“They are grafters, and have a whole lot of fake 
schemes. They just use this ranch to raise money 
for their other schemes. I don’t know how they do 
it. There is something wrong with the deed, or 
it is closed by a mortgage, or the title is not good, or 
they just get rid of them like that.” And she 
pointed dramatically out of the door toward the 
wooden crosses 


CHAPTER V 


SEEKING THE FLAW 

j\TEAL had to use his Spanish at Cordoba to find 
* ^ the records of title to the Rancho Huisache. 
He made himself understood and was surprised 
to see how well the records were kept. 

Dickman in selling him the ranch had represented 
that he had bought it for 70,000 pesos from an 
American named Williams and a Mexican named Es¬ 
pinosa, who owned it jointly. He paid them, he said, 
30,000 pesos in gold, and gave back a mortgage for 
40,000 pesos due in ten years. 

Dickman, on account of his wife’s health, was 
unable to go down and take possession, therefore 
was sacrificing it to Neal for 60,000 pesos—$30,000 
in American money, Neal to pay down $10,000 in 
gold, and assume the mortgage. 

The records which Neal examined feverishly 
seemed to corroborate everything Dickman had said, 
and everything Neal’s Mexican lawyer had reported 
correct. The title to the ranch had been vested in 
Bernard Williams and Manton Espinosa. A deed was 
recorded to R. P. Dickman and a mortgage for 
40,000 pesos was shown. 

Neal filed his own deed for record and left the 


44 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


office much relieved. And yet there had been seven 
others, according to Mrs. Krider, who had bought 
this ranch and never got possession of it. Perhaps 
they were easily scared out; but no doubt at least 
two had made a fight, the two whose graves were 
down there by the river. 

Neal sat down on an iron bench in the plaza to 
think it over. A young Mexican dandy in white 
flannels sauntered by, a wrinkled old beggar, a 
woman with a red shawl, carrying a baby, passed. 
The cathedral bell tolled. Strange birds sang or 
screamed in the foliage overhead. It was a far-off 
world, a long way from placid, safe old Buckeye 
Bridge. They had all warned him not to venture 
down here—called him a fool. 

A small street car came clanging up the main street 
pulled by a Ford engine. Neal grinned. Even 
here Yankee wit had found a track on which to 
run. There must be ways a similar wit could learn 
to stay. 

He got up and went across to the Gran Hotel 
Zeballos. The clerk greeted him with real en¬ 
thusiasm. He should have the best room in the 
house. No, Neal wanted information. “Had there,” 
the clerk was surprised to hear the American speak 
in Spanish, “been lawsuits—trouble over the Rancho 
Huisache ?” 

“Si, si,” the clerk nodded, but showed a reluctance 
to go into detail. 


SEEKING THE FLAW 


45 

“In such cases/’ asked Neal, “who was the lawyer 
for Senor Williams and Senor Espinosa?” 

“The Abogado Sanchez,” answered the clerk. 

At three o’clock just after the midday siesta, Neal 
entered Abogado Sanchez’s office. 

“My name is Smith,” he said. “I am connected 
with Senor Williams.” 

Sanchez was instantly very friendly. Senor Smith 
must have another chair, not one that had a 
split on the bottom. Senor Smith must sit near the 
window where the breeze was cool. 

Neal accepted this superfluous attention gravely; 
then frowning slightly, remarked: 

“The ranch is sold again and we want you to 
take it back from the new sucker.” 

“Bueno!” Sanchez laughed. “And on what 
grounds this time?” 

Neal took from his pocket his copy of the 
mortgage from Dickman to Williams and Espinosa. 

“Here is the obligation the new sucker assumes.” 

The Mexican lawyer read the mortgage over 
slowly, frowning and running his fingers through 
his thick black hair. 

“Ha,” his face lighted with sudden understand¬ 
ing, as he found something. “Very clever. It will 
be very easy. You send this senor-” 

“Ashton,” supplied Neal. 

“Ashton— bueno —send him in to see me and 
I will manage it quickly. He very big fool.” 



46 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“He must be,” nodded Neal. “Everybody says 
he is.” He reached for the papers, returned them 
to his pocket. “All right, senor, Ell send Ashton 
in to see you by and by.” 

There was something wrong. The lawyer had 
found it. Neal felt the emptiness in the stomach, 
the dizziness of the head of one toppled off a 
building. 

He went up the narrow, cobbled street, walking 
rapidly, his face flushed, his hands clinched. He 
would get to the bottom of this. He must know 
what he had to fight before he began. 

The clerk at the hotel gave him Williams’ address 
at Mexico City and Neal caught the evening train. 
When he got into the Pullman he had his plans 
made. Williams had not expected him for two 
weeks. He would also walk in on Mr. Williams as 
Senor Smith. He might learn something. 

Once more Neal took the papers out of his pocket 
and read them over as he had a dozen times. 

There could not be anything wrong, that is, 
unless it was some obscure technicality. 

He sat in deep rejection, thinking it over carefully. 
There must be something wrong but he could not 
find it. 

He turned and put up the window for the car 
was warm. It had rained earlier in the evening, but 
the cloud had passed on into the mountains, and 
the full moon was rising clear. 


SEEKING THE FLAW 


47 


The dense tropical foliage was still adrip, and the 
air was filled with the heavy perfume of exotic 
blossoms. 

Neal leaned his head out of the window and 
looked toward the mountains into which they had 
begun to climb. The rain cloud had banked blackly 
against the higher crags, and magically the rising 
moon arched upon it a gorgeous rainbow. It stirred 
Neal, for he had never before seen a rainbow by 
moonlight 

The train stopped at a little station. Venders 
swarmed down upon the coaches from every direc¬ 
tion, their shrill, half-musical cry, a mixture of 
fierceness and plaintiveness, gave the tropic night 
a strange touch. The second-class coaches ahead 
fairly swarmed with passengers, and their heads 
were thrust in clusters from open windows as they 
bargained with the- venders. The Mexican peon 
seems to have no regular time for food. He eats 
whenever he has a centavo with which to buy. 
Bananas, melons, joints of sugar cane, tortillas and 
dulces—sweets—in every conceivable shape. 

But it was not all food these night merchants 
sold. One after another came under Neal’s window 
and held up cylinders of bark filled with hyacinths; 
and the odor of these rare blossoms drowned all 
other scents of the night. 

The train moved on. Neal still sat with his 
head from the window, watching the diminishing 


48 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


specks of human beings on the station platform, 
watching the dark, rank foliage in the deep little 
canons, watching the moonlight on the mountains 
ahead. The richness and strangeness made him forget 
the oppression of his own problems. 

Something was running alongside of the moving 
car—galloping swiftly. It was an animal with a 
white spot on its forehead. Another came a little 
behind, a brindled one, and still another trailed far¬ 
ther back. He knew what they were—he had heard 
of them—the homeless dogs. Dogs who had no 
masters, no homes, but followed the trains for the 
remnants of food that would be thrown from the 
windows. 

He watched them dwindle away down the moonlit 
track as the train gathered speed. But still they 
ran, still hoping for one more bite of food. 

It was pathetic, he thought, their foolish per¬ 
sistence in chasing a vanished hope. And wasn’t 
he doing that? Suddenly his own troubles came 
back to him. No doubt these rascals had him en¬ 
tirely in their power. What their trick had been 
he had not yet discovered; but it was fairly certain 
they had turned it so effectively that he would never 
get a dollar of his money back. No doubt he was 
as foolishly chasing his vanishing investment as 
these dogs were the moving train. 

The train was going slow. The road had begun 
to climb—it climbs five thousand feet in twenty 


SEEKING THE FLAW 


49 


miles. The engine puffed laboredly, the wheels 
whined on the steel rails. Another little town was 
just ahead, and as the train panted up to the 
station and stopped, Neal glanced back. He felt 
like giving a shout. There came the dog with 
the white spot on his forehead, and the brindled 
cur, and the black one. They had followed the 
train from one station to another, caught up with 
it, and got another meal. Later he learned these 
wild dogs did that regularly over this strip of steep 
grade. 

The night was getting cooler and he put his win¬ 
dow down. He felt better. If a stray dog with 
no other guide than a hungry stomach could chase 
an impossible hope and catch up with it, he was 
not going to give up at the first snatch some thief 
made at his own prospects. 

Most of the passengers had gone to bed and 
the porter wanted to make up Neal’s berth. He 
got up and went to the smoking compartment at 
the end of the car. 

There were only two men there, both Mexicans. 
One was a squat, broad-shouldered man, with a 
short, thick neck, and square head, and deep-set 
black eyes. His skin was thick and oily and deeply 
seamed, and he had large hands that indicated great 
strength. He was dressed in a rough corduroy suit 
and heavy shoes, and a woolen shirt. But there was 
force in the man, and intelligence; a formidable 


50 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


but not disagreeable personality. The other was 
a dandyish young Mexican with a smooth face, and 
a traveled air, who smoked cigarettes in a long pearl 
cigarette holder. They both glanced up as Neal 
entered but resumed their conversation casually. Yet 
Neal knew they had changed the subject. 

“Do either of you gentlemen speak English ?” 
he asked. 

They both looked up politely, and shook their 
heads. 

“No Englese,” said the young man. 

“Do you know what time we get to Velasco ?” 
he asked in English. 

They were both quite emphatic in their “No 
entende ” And in turn asked him a question or two 
in Spanish. He shook his head as not understand¬ 
ing and settled down most innocently to smoke. 

Relieved of any fear of being understood, the 
two Mexicans dropped back to their original dis¬ 
cussion. 

Neal, slowly smoking, and with eyes half closed, 
followed the conversation easily. The young man, 
he gathered, was from the North, and was perhaps 
a lawyer, or some district official. He mentioned 
Senora and Chiauchiau. The other man was ap¬ 
parently from some mountain village south of 
Cordoba. 

“And you do not like our presidente ?” The 


SEEKING THE FLAW 


5i 

foppish young man smiled out of the corner of his 
eyes. 

The heavy Mexican’s big hands clutched until 
veins showed on the backs of his hands like strings 
of hemp. His face grew ugly in its contortion. 

“Diablo! No—I hate him. He kill my father— 
and my brother. He have them shot like dogs, and 
hung them up in the plaza at Pueblo for the people 
to see. And for what? They do nothing. They 
are innocent. Some men tell lies on them, and 
say they start revolution.” 

The young man talked about something irrelevant 
for a time, very suavely. 

“Do you think Senor Valdez like the presidente?” 

“Yes,” said the older man, “he is loyal to the 
devil, Carranza.” 

“And Senor Espinosa, of the Ranch of the Thorn, 
what of him?” 

The heavy man’s coarse face cleared. His eyes 
brightened, as he nodded. “He is for us. He 
very brave man, and he send word he join me, 
whenever I send call.” 

There was further talk about states and cities, 
and political leaders which was all strange to Neal. 
But he heard the strong men of Senora mentioned— 
Obregon. 

And then finally the young man came back to a 
direct question. 

“Where can you get money for your men? We 


52 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


are very poor in the North. No money to spare— 
no rich man is helping us.” 

“Oh,” the heavy one spread out his big hands. 
“It take very little money, where there is so much 
hate. We fight on tortillas and frijoles. But guns, 

of course, and ammunition we must have. Senor 

Espinosa says that perhaps Senor Williams can find 
the money.” 

The porter came through, as the train stopped at 
Velasco and the heavy Mexican got off. The other 
went back to his berth in the Pullman. 

Neal did not go to bed at once. Something was 
afoot, and Espinosa and Williams were mixed up 
in it. Would it involve the ranch, and would he be 
a target for a new revolution?” 

He lifted the window and looked out. The 

moon rode high. It was wild country now—high 

crags and deep black canons, a wild, stirring country. 

The track made a wide curve. He could see the 
rails ahead in the moonlight, and then it seemed 
swallowed up as though the road was lost in black¬ 
ness. As the porter came back, Neal pointed ahead: 

“A tunnel?” he asked. 

“No, senor, the Canon of the Moon. Very steep 
walls.” 

A half mile off to the south Neal saw a huge 
black rock towering hundreds of feet high in the 
moonlight. It stood apart from the mountains on 


SEEKING THE FLAW 53 

a little shoulder with a rim of scrub trees about it. 
The porter followed Neal’s eyes. 

“Piedra del diablo ” he said with a shrug. 

'‘The Rock of the Devil,” Neal repeated as the 
porter went to answer a ring. “If the devil needed 
a rock behind which to hide, I don’t know a better 
one.” 


CHAPTER VI 


MR. SMITH CALLS 

B ERNARD WILLIAMS had an office on Cinco 
de Mayo Street near the National Railway 
offices. It was a high-class block, and Senor Wil¬ 
liams’ office was innocent enough apparently. There 
was a big folding desk, three or four chairs, some 
maps and a typewriter. All American stuff. The 
office might, so far as appearances went, have been 
in Yonkers, New York, or Kansas City, Missouri. 
Even the one word on the door—“Investments’’— 
was conservatively American. 

Senor Williams had not a great many callers and 
they came only one or two at a time. They were 
of two classes: Americans newly arrived, who 
were received in the outer office; Mexicans, or 
Americans long in Mexico, and they were taken to 
the private office. 

To the first there was much talk of Mexico and 
its resources, of opportunities—mines, oil, rubber, 
hemp, coffee, commerce. With the other class the 
conversation was of concessions, titles, intrigues, 
revolutions—and was carried on in a lower tone. 

Bernard Williams had been in Mexico ten years. 
There were those who thought he was worth several 


MR. SMITH CALLS 


55 


million dollars, and there were others who were 
afraid he would not have the two pesos due for 
pressing his suit. But whether he was a millionaire 
now or not, there was no doubt of what he intended 
to be. He seldom missed a chance to damn Mexico, 
but he did not intend to leave it until he could 
take back a great wad of money—and it did not 
matter whether it was Mexican or American money. 

First and last he had acquired considerable real 
property, but he wasted no time or effort trying to 
make it pay in itself. He never got a mine from 
which to dig silver, or a tobacco field from which 
to make cigars, nor a lease upon which to drill for 
oil. It was always to resell, to pool into fabulous 
corporations of some sort, and exploit in America. 
His system was expressed in a moment of frank¬ 
ness. “Hell, what is the use wasting your time 
trying to produce stuff? There’s too much already. 
A drag for gathering it in is what I want.” 

Of course the more real stuff he had behind his 
exploitations, the easier the work and the less the 
danger. It had been his object all these ten years to 
get hold of some real big concession—one worth 
actual money, get it through political graft, make 
one big killing and then get out. 

He had got that concession—almost. All he 
lacked was Carranza’s signature. It was a scheme 
he had thought out himself, involving free ports and 
vast manufacturing concessions, whereby raw ma* 


56 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

terial might be shipped to Mexico, manufactured with 
cheap labor, and redistributed to Europe and South 
America without any duty coming or going. 

But as the devil’s luck would have it, the thing 
had come to a head at a time when his finances were 
at the lowest possible ebb. And then had come the 
good news in the telegram from Dickman—the Ranch 
of the Thorn was sold again, and Dickman was 
wiring the ten thousand to a bank in Mexico City. 

Williams sat tipped back in his swivel chair, 
his legs stuck far out, and crossed at the ankles. 
He was intermittently chewing the end of an un¬ 
lighted cigar, as he dictated to a slender young 
Mexican stenographer a letter of congratulation to 
his American agent. He had put off the letter until 
he returned from Cordoba. 

“It came at the psychological moment all right,” 
the dictation ran, “but we will need more. The 
way things are down here now, money will get 
most everything, but you can’t get much of any¬ 
thing, not even a wink, without it. These damned 
greasers are strong on the palaver, but mighty shy 
on performance unless there is a pile of dinero 
where they can get their fingers on it. 

“I hope you’ll be able to shoot some wise guys 
down this way that are looking for the chance of 
their lifetime to invest in Mexico. I can sure steer 
them straight—and we need the money. If this 
thing only goes through—and it will or hell will be 


MR. SMITH CALLS 


57 


bent double—it will mean the wind-up; yours truly 
won’t ever need to go to the poorhouse, and neither 
will you.” 

Providence does not distribute solely to the just. 
Quite often the unjust get a very sizable hunk of 
luck. Bernard Williams had not affixed his signa¬ 
ture to that letter before a Heaven-sent American 
walked in—a slender young man with brown hair 
and friendly gray eyes, and a deep but mild voice. 

“I understand you have some good investments,” 
opened the visitor. 

Williams’ small eyes looked a benediction, but 
the nostrils dilated, making his nose swell at the end 
like the head of an adder. 

“Yes,” he made the tone sound cautiously con¬ 
servative. “For the right man, Mexico offers some 
very good opportunities.” 

He sent the Mexican stenographer out for some 
drinks to celebrate his rejoicing over meeting a fellow 
American, and proceeded to draw out that American, 
named Smith, by talking mines, oil, cotton, rubber— 
a great many things, watching to see which awoke 
a response in the visitor. 

But Senor Smith by and by interrupted with a 
slight wave of the hand, and said in a soft, apologetic 
tone: 

“I may as well confess, I’m looking for something 
big and something easy. I’ve lived in a small town 
where everything is measured by the yard or the 


58 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


pound. I want to cut loose.” He indicated the sky 
was his limit. “I want to take a shot at easy money. 
If you’ve got something that is a whole lot of a gam¬ 
ble, but with a pretty good chance to make a pile at 
one throw—let me in on it.” 

Williams put his right hand up to the sagging 
bridge of his nose, and caressed the bulbous adder’s 
head below; he moistened his lips, hitched his chair 
nearer, and leaned forward. This was the easiest 
one of all the gulls ever sent his way. 

“If you are a real sport,” he said with a wink, 
“I can let you in on something so big it will make 
your head swim. How much-” 

“Oh,” Senor Smith waved indifferently, “a good 
deal. You see I’ve recently inherited quite a bunch 
of money—and darned if I want to go into business 
with it.” 

Once more Williams moistened his lips and rubbed 
a large flat hand over his left thigh. In great con¬ 
fidence, under dire injunction to secrecy, he confided: 

‘‘There is right now one of the biggest oppor¬ 
tunities ever offered in Mexico, an opportunity I 
dare not touch. Another revolution is coming as 
sure as fate and a good deal faster. But I’m 
a friend of Carranza’s. He’s always shown great 
liking for me, has me out to his home for dinner 
two or three times a month, and asks my advice 
on all sorts of foreign policies. Now I’m not 
the man to go back on a friend even when I know 



MR. SMITH CALLS 


59 


he is going to lose. So, sink or swim, I’ve got to 
stick it out with Carranza—although I know that 
in less than three months he’s going to be downed. 

“Now here is the chance—I’ve been wishing I 
knew an American with money and of the right 
disposition to take it. The revolutionists will need 

money worse than the devil needs ice. They need 

it now worse than they will two months from now, 

for just as quick as the big fellows up in the 

States know that a real revolution is on they’ll 
jump in and finance them. 

“I happen to know one of the leaders very 
intimately. I must stay out of it entirely. But I 
can send you to him. He lives down near Cordoba— 
where you saw me at the hotel and heard about my 
investments. In fact that was he that you saw 
come to meet me at the hotel. 

“The one,” suggested Smith, “whom you called 
Senor Moses?” 

Williams nodded. “Yes, he is a real Mexican, 
but he has some Slav blood in him—enough to make 
him thrifty. 

“Now if you’d put up fifty thousand, say, or 
even half that much, with Moses for the revolu¬ 
tion, they’ll give you anything you ask; you’ll be 
a millionaire in three months after they get into 
power. Concessions? Monopolies? Why, man, for 
$25,000 you can get concessions from them worth 
millions! 


6o 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“If I wasn’t just tied up with Carranza I’d be 
worth 20,000,000 pesos in five months. While as it 
is I’ll do well to be worth two million.” 

Senor Smith thought the suggestion most alluring, 
and asked full details. 

“I’ll look into it at once,” he agreed “It seems 
the -sort of thing I’m likely to be mixed up in. 
Sort of romantic, you know. But also I want to 
buy a ranch. They told me at Cordoba you had 
one to sell. That is really what I came up for.” 

Senor Williams rubbed his spreading nose and 
recrossed his legs, and frowned thoughtfully a 
moment. 

“Yes, I have a ranch. But temporarily it is tied 
up. I sold it to some cheap piker up in the States 
who paid a little down, but failed to come across 
with the rest. I have a mortgage that is past due. 
But before I could sell it to you I’d have to 
foreclose it.” 

“How long will it take?” asked Senor Smith 
innocently. 

“Oh, not long. If the greenhorn knew Mexican 
law, he might stand us off a while, but he doesn’t. 
So we’ll just bluff him out or pay him a small 
sum to deed it back to us. I think I could guarantee 
title within three months. If you care to look it 
over I’ll wire my superintendent, who, by the way, is 
the Mexican Moses I spoke to you about. And 
believe me he is some son of the bullrushes.” 


MR. SMITH CALLS 


61 


“All right.” Senor Smith arose. “Wire your 
man to meet me at Cordoba to-morrow.” 

And turning at the door: “You’ll hear from me 
a little later. Adios, senor.” 

The large, heavy face lost several shades in its 
enthusiasm as Williams looked at the door through 
which the visitor had passed. He felt the first faint 
trace of misgiving, the bulbous nose swelled as he 
wrinkled it like an animal sniffing danger. 

“He seems innocent, but a little too damned in¬ 
nocent. I wonder if his name is really Smith?” 


CHAPTER VII 


SENORITA MARIA 

D ACK at his hotel Neal again took the copy of the 
mortgage from his pocket. Williams had just 
said he could close it at once; and Sanchez had 
found something wrong with it. But Neal had not, 
and the Mexican lawyer to whom he had sent it 
had not. Once more he began to read it over 
carefully. This was the copy of the mortgage 
Dicktnan had showed him at Buckeye Bridge while 
the deal was pending. 

Suddenly as he stared at the paper something 
went through his consciousness like a hot wire. 

“Fool is right!” he said aloud. “Damn fool is 
better.” 

How a man could read over a paper a dozen times 
and not see a thing like that was incredible! 

The mortgage was dated in February and in¬ 
stead of falling due in ten years, fell due in ten 
days! 

Neal would swear it was ten years in the original 
copy. He held the paper to a better light. Yes, 
there had been an erasure. 

“I see now,” he thought bitterly, “how they have 
swindled me.” 


SENORITA MARIA 


63 


The real mortgage was fixed up on purpose for 
this deal and read “ten days after date,” Dickman 
had a fake copy of it reading “ten years after date” 
which he showed Neal while the trade was pending. 
After Neal accepted the terms and suggested he 
send the copy of the mortgage to a Mexican at¬ 
torney for verification, Dickman had erased the “ten 
years” and inserted “ten days” so the Mexican at¬ 
torney would find the copy agreed with that on 
record. 

Neal had given the latter only a casual glance and 
had failed to note the change in time. 

He left the hotel and caught a train back to Cor¬ 
doba. 

Neal glanced out of the window as the train 
pulled up at the station. The big Mexican foreman 
was leisurely swaggering up and down the station 
platform, casually striking his beaded leather trousers 
with a riding whip. He was awaiting the arrival of 
Senor Smith. 

As he got off and approached Espinosa, the Mex¬ 
ican gave him a brief, surprised glance, and looked 
away at the other passengers for his man. 

“I am Senor Smith,” announced Neal, and the 
Mexican gave a visible start. “Take my bag. 
Have you horses? Or the machine?” 

“Horses, senor,” the Mexican answered. 

“I have come back to look over the ranch,” Neal 
remarked as they walked down the street toward 


6 4 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


where the horses were hitched. “But I am to be 
known as Senor Smith. Call me that on the ranch. 
And do not forget it.” 

“Si, Senor Smith.” The Mexican was looking at 
him slantwise—very puzzled. Was this a trick, or 
was really Senor Smith on the inside of the in¬ 
trigues? At any rate it would pay him to walk 
softly until he found out. 

At the hacienda Neal slipped out of the saddle. 

“Send a horse to the door at five o’clock,” he said 
to Espinosa. “A good one, please.” The “please” 
was mere polite authority. 

Neal went into the house leaving the horses to the 
Mexican. 

If Espinosa had been surprised at Neal’s return, 
Mrs. Krider was struck speechless by it. She was just 
passing through the hall with a broom in her hand 
and a look of retribution in her eye, when Ashton 
entered. 

At sight of him she stopped with a suddenness 
that almost upset her. Her muscular neck twitched, 
her red hair toppled over one ear, and her face went 
pale and then red. Her eyes looked anger and her 
lips opened, but she did not speak for a moment. 
Whether her violent emotion was hate or fear or 
mere surprise Neal could not tell. 

“The prodigal fool has returned,” he said lightly, 
“but don’t kill the calf yet; save it for his birth¬ 
day.” 


SENORITA MARIA 


65 

Mrs. Krider seemed to struggle with two or 
three things, violent things she wanted to say, but 
changed her mind and did not say any of them— 
glancing down and seeing the broom in her hand, 
which a maid had used neither wisely nor too well, 
Mrs. Krider remembered her errand and strode to¬ 
ward the stairway, merely remarking as she passed: 

“He won’t h^ve any birthday.’’ 

The sun was yet far above the line of mountains 
to the west when Neal rode off alone. Senor Val¬ 
dez’s ranch was in the foothills twelve miles away, 
and Neal put the horse to a fast trot. He wanted 
to reach the hacienda before dark. 

He had kept up a front with Williams and Espi¬ 
nosa and Mrs. Krider, but inwardly he felt all gone 
—utterly bankrupt. A twenty-thousand-dollar mort¬ 
gage already due! By selling everything he had left 
at Buckeye Bridge, and counting every dollar he had 
brought with him, he could not raise more than 
twenty-five hundred. They would take the ranch, 
and he could not even punish the rascals, for Dick- 
man would swear the date on the mortgage was 
plain, and there had been no fraud. 

He stopped his horse for a moment at a high turn 
of the road, and looked back. The sun was behind 
Orizaba, and the long shadow fell across the tropical 
valleys below. The broken foothills, the fields of 
cane and coffee, the white walls of a hacienda here 
and there, and the spires of a church rising from 


66 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


the wilderness. It was a wild, stirring country, full 
of soft shades and gentle winds, but underneath were 
things that bit and stung, and passions that burned. 
It stirred him as no place had ever done, stirred 
him with a fierceness of joy and sorrow equal to its 
own. 

'‘And the worst of the whole damnable deal,” he 
said as he turned his horse to the west again, “is 
that it robs me of my long dream of romance.” 

Yet in a little while he was whistling an air from a 
Kipling chantey, and watching with keen curiosity 
the strange trees and vines that lined the road. 

It was still light when he approached the hacienda, 
set on a small plateau halfway between the moun¬ 
tains and the valley. The courtliness, the dignity, 
the romance of the great house sitting there like a 
castle against the green background of the mountains, 
stirred Neal into forgetfulness of his troubles. What 
a picture! He felt almost awed as he dismounted. 
This man lived as a duke or a king used to live. 

“Is Senor Valdez at home?” he asked a servant 
who had come forward. 

“Si, si” the servant nodded in cordial friendliness, 
and went to the gate with him and rang the bell. 

The heavy gate in the thick, high wall swung open 
without any one touching it, and Neal entered the 
court. This place, different from any he had seen, 
had a garden and trees inside the wall, in front of the 
house. 


SENORITA MARIA 


67 

The house, built like a Moorish castle, rose forty 
or fifty feet high, the walls were of ivory-colored 
stucco, and over the west wing climbed a great vine. 
In front was a screen of eucalyptus and hardwood 
trees. The first hint of twilight threw the garden 
into cool green shadows. 

The reception hall which Neal entered was thirty 
by forty feet, with a ceiling twenty-five feet high. 
The floor was tiled, the furniture of heavy mahog¬ 
any, and there were paintings and antiques on the 
wall. 

“The Senor Ashton does our poor house ver’ great 
honor by his call.” 

The Senorita Valdez had appeared from some¬ 
where, and came toward him with an almost darting 
grace of movement. A light silk mantoon of rich 
rose color was thrown about her shoulders, and her 
black hair and the whiteness of face were accentuated 
by the semidusk. She held out her hand. 

Neal took it and held it, not knowing what he did, 
for as he looked into her eyes, almost on a level 
with his, he seemed floating on some delicious wave 
of unconscious reality. 

“Will the senor come into the patio?” She slipped 
her hand from his. “It is cooler there. I will call 
my father.” 

Neal followed into the patio inclosed by the wings 
of the house, and sat down on a bench by the foun¬ 
tain. There were flowers and palms, and the feathery 


68 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


leaves of a pepper tree stood out against the dark 
blue sky overhead. 

Neal was angry at himself for not detaining the 
senorita. The mere matter of twenty thousand dol¬ 
lars seemed utterly trivial compared to an hour in 
this enchanted spot with Maria Valdez. 

But he abused himself without need—as we often 
do—for in a few moments the senorita returned. 

“He will be here ver’ soon.” She was standing a 
few feet from him and reached up and broke a 
small twig of the pepper tree and wrinkled her nose 
as she smelled it. 

“Won’t you sit down?” Neal had arisen and indi¬ 
cated the bench. “You speak such good English— 
you can tell me many things.” 

“Oh, I could tell nothing that would be worth the 
senor’s listening.” She gave a bewitching shrug of 
the shoulders and flirt of the head. “Women have 
ver’ little—what you call hem?—brains.” 

“If they haven’t more than some men I know,” 
Neal laughed ruefully, “the Lord have mercy on their 
heads. Please sit and talk with me a little,” he im¬ 
plored, and to his utter amazement heard himself say¬ 
ing: “It will be moments I shall never forget so long 
as trees grow and water runs.” 

She laughed deliciously and, with another flirtatious 
shrug of the rose-covered shoulder, slipped down 
upon the bench. 

“Ah! The senor is a most irresistible flatterer.” 


SENORITA MARIA 


69 


Then looking at him intently with her limpid dark 
eyes, her smooth white forehead wrinkled into a 
puzzle, and in a tone of quick sympathy: 

“The senor does not look so happy as he did on 
the road three days ago. Has he found trouble in 
our country so soon?” 

“He brought it with him.” Neal was surprised at 
her quick discernment. “A pack of it as heavy as 
the snows of Orizaba.” 

“Oh, but by and by,” she lifted her brows and 
looked at him hopefully, “in July—August maybe, 
the sun will melt the snows of Orizaba—and they all 
run away. Maybe the troubles of senor will run 
away so.” 

“I will not have to wait so long,” said Neal, who 
never before had known how to compliment a 
woman. “One smile of the senorita will do more 
for me than a month of sun will for Orizaba.” 

“Father is coming.” She arose with one grace¬ 
ful turn of her body. “He will not like for me to be 
talking to young man when he is not present.” A 
most roguish flirt of her head and flash of the black 
eyes. “And so dangerous a young man—so ver’ nice 
a flatterer.” Then swiftly sober again: “I hope he 
help senor with his troubles, for so kind and gal¬ 
lant a senor should have a merry heart.” She van¬ 
ished into the house as the father appeared in the 
patio. 

Senor Valdez greeted the visitor hospitably, and, 


70 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


much of his surprise, Neal returned the greeting in 
very good Spanish. 

The host called a servant and had a small table 
brought with cigars and glasses and a bottle or two. 

They talked for an hour, about everything except 
what Neal had come to discuss. Valdez was a charm¬ 
ing host, and his mind was both keen and mellow. 
He had seen and read much, thought and lived even 
more. 

“Senor,” Neal said at last, “I fear it is very bad 
manners to intrude one’s troubles on even so gener¬ 
ous a neighbor as you, but I’m in a devilish mess, 
and need information and advice.” 

He told him the whole story of his purchase of 
the ranch, and the discovery of the rascally manipula¬ 
tions of the mortgage. 

“Now I am not going to give up without a fight,” 
concluded Neal. “But so far I don’t see any way 
to win. I am not acquainted with your law. How 
long can I hold on to the ranch, before they close 
me out under the mortgage?” 

“If you were in possession,” Senor Valdez an¬ 
swered soberly, “you might manage to retain the 
ranch a year—or possibly longer”—significantly—“if 
you lived.” 

Neither spoke for a moment. Then the Spaniard 
added: 

“There has been much trouble at the Ranch of 
the Thorn. It is a very fatal sort of place.” 


SENORITA MARIA 


7i 


Neal asked more information about the Mexican 
law and methods of procedure. Valdez, always the 
courteous gentleman, refrained from intruding ad¬ 
vice. But Neal knew he felt that it was exceedingly 
foolhardy for him to attempt to retain the ranch. 

“I must go.” He arose. Valdez insisted he must 
remain for the night, but strong as he wished it, 
Neal felt he should go. 

“I will send the jefe of my guard,” said the host. 
Valdez, as Neal learned later, kept an armed guard 
of a hundred men. The chief of this guard was 
called the jefe of the guard. Just as the two men 
started out of the patio, a slender, swift figure crossed 
to them. 

“Father,” said Senorita Maria, “Senora Tia Alicia 
wishes to see you just a moment about the baskets 
for the market.” 

Valdez excused himself and went in. 

Senorita Maria stood still, her face upturned to 
the sky spangled with brilliant stars, the mantoon 
about her head and shoulders, looking in the faint 
light like some priestess of beauty. 

Neal took a step nearer. They were only a little 
apart—her lips were almost on a level with his, 
and from her hair came a faint, intoxicating per¬ 
fume. The palm and the pepper trees were dim 
shapes, and high above floated the stars in that 
sea of dark gray. Neal felt himself slipping, float- 


7 2 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


ing. He could scarcely breathe, his heart beat one 
continuous stream—he was lost. 

“Senorita.” He spoke intently and stopped. 

“Si senor?” came softly. 

“Always I followed the road of stones and thorns 
until I met you—and now I walk on flowers that 
lead to-” Again he paused. 

“To what, senor ?” she prompted almost under 
breath. 

“The impossible/’ he finished at the sound of 
Valdez’s returning steps. 



CHAPTER VIII 


A MIDNIGHT RIDE 

T^OR several miles the jefe of the guard rode in 
A front, bristling with protection. He was a large 
man with a bull neck and wore a wide-brimmed hat. 
He carried a pistol on each hip; a knife at his back, 
an automatic in his shirt front, a sword at his 
side, and a carbine across the saddle horn. His 
was no mere comic strut, either. He had been 

chosen for his job because of his execution. 

Where the road widened Neal rode up beside 
the jefe, not from any fear of the night, but to 
talk with him. The guard was surprised when Neal 
spoke to him in Spanish, and at once was very 

friendly, for even so bold and armed a man as 
the jefe felt the lonesomeness of the night road. 

He admitted to Neal that he had killed very 
many bad men. How many? Twenty, perhaps 
thirty—maybe more. One could never tell how 

many of the wounded, that got away, died. 

Senor Valdez, he said, was a very great man— 
and very rich. The senorita Maria ? The stars 
themselves worshiped the senorita. He had known 
her ever since she put on her first little red shoes. 
Always she was very full of fun, and got into 


74 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


very much mischief. She would fight, too—not 
afraid of anything—and sometimes she got very 
angry. But she over it very queek. She very 
kind to the animals, and always run away when 
anything must be killed. 

Neal tactfully but fearfully wanted to know if 
she was to be married soon. If there were sweet¬ 
hearts. 

“Oh, yes, very many when she go away to 
school in New York—Paris. But here not many 
dare lift their eyes to Senorita Valdez. Senor 
Espinosa come two or three times, but Senor Valdez 
not like hem.” 

“What sort of fellow is Espinosa?” inquired 
Neal. “Fve only met him twice.” 

“Very bad man.” There was strong dislike 
in the jefe’s tone. “But not very brave. If I 
meet him in the road and say: ‘Senor, when I 
count ten I shoot you;’ before I count five he will 
run.” 

“Have you ever tried it?” Neal hoped it was true. 

The jefe shook his head. “No; but some time 
perhaps I will. Only I may not count more than 
four before I shoot.” 

Neal made no comment, but he hoped the jefe 
would make good that threat. His only hope 
of realizing anything at all from the ranch was to 
get possession and then hold on as long as the 


A MIDNIGHT RIDE 75 

law would allow. Espinosa was his most dangerous 
obstacle. 

If Espinosa refused to acknowledge him as the 
owner—and he most certainly would—the only way 
of gaining possession would be by suit at law, 
and they probably could delay that until the mortgage 
was foreclosed. 

“Senor,” Neal said as they turned down to where 
the Hacienda of the Thorn showed dimly white 
in the starlight, “have you a man in your company 
whom you can trust, one not known to Senor 
Espinosa ?” 

“Si, si, many of my men are not known to 
the sehor. ,, 

Neal drew a little closer alongside and laid his 
hand on the neck of the jefe’s horse. “My friend, 
would you do me a very great favor ?” 

“Senor,” the big Mexican drew his horse to a 
stop and lifted himself up in his saddle, “I saw 
Senorita Maria’s face when she look at you at the 
gate. I will do anything in the world for the 
senor.” 

It was not the pledge of service that thrilled 
Neal, so much as the reason for it. The senorita 
had looked glad when he appeared at the gate. 

“Thank you, my friend,” Neal said warmly. 
“And both you and your man shall be well repaid. 
Send him to-morrow to Senor Espinosa. Have 
him say: 


;6 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

“ T come from very great man to warn the 
senor about the Senor Smith He is not what 
he seems. Be very careful that nothing happens 
to him or there will be great trouble. He is on a 
secret mission/ ” 

“Ha,” exclaimed the jefe appreciatively. “The 
senor is a very clever man. That will scare that 
son of a pig very bad. It shall be as the senor 
wishes.” And he repeated the message over three 
times to be sure he had it correctly. 

“I will not need you farther,” Neal said. “Yon¬ 
der is the ranch.” He pressed a ten-pesos gold 
piece on the guard, and rode on down alone. 

It was nearly midnight, but Moses was waiting 
for him. 

“I was getting very uneasy,” he said as Neal dis¬ 
mounted, and turned the horse over to a sleepy, 
ragged peon. “Not knowing where you went.” 

Neal bit the corner of his lip at the hint for 
information, but did not offer any. 

“It is very dangerous,” went on Moses, “this 
country, for one not accustomed to fighting.” 

Neal looked at the big Mexican for a moment 
and felt he would like to take that sneer off his 
face with a machete. But there was nothing but 
politeness in Espinosa’s words. 

They went in. Would the senor like something 
to eat or drink before he retired? Yes, Neal was 
hungry. They went into the dining room and 


A MIDNIGHT RIDE 


77 


Moses, still not knowing that Neal understood any¬ 
thing but English, called a young Mexican girl and 
told her in sneering Spanish to get the American 
pig something to eat—anything would do—the worst 
they had was too good for the damned gringo. 

The order delivered, he turned with a half-mock¬ 
ing smirk to Neal. 

“And what does the senor wish to do to-morrow?” 

“We shall see,” Neal said quietly, “when to¬ 
morrow comes. Good night, senor. You need 
not wait up—I know my room. 

“By the way,” he called as Moses started out 
with an offended strut, “have that negro Blanco, 
sent to me at eight o’clock in the morning. He 
speaks English, you know.” 

“Very well, senor,” Espinosa said aloud; then 
under his breath: “I must watch that damned gringo, 
he is up to something.” 

Neal went up to his room but did not light a 
candle. It was pleasantly warm, and he took a 
chair out on the veranda, and sat enveloped in the 
deep shadows, thinking over his adventure at Senor 
Valdez’s hacienda. Senorita Maria was so vividly 
in his consciousness that she seemed present there 
with him in the soft darkness. He could almost 
put out his hand and touch her. 

The witchery of her dark eyes, the adorable 
flirt of her head, the tantalizing quirk of her 


78 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


mouth- The spirit of romance incarnated in 

a lovely body! 

The sound of a boot striking the cobbled paving 
in front of the gate made Neal lean forward and 
peer down into the dim starlight. Some one was 
walking away from the gate cautiously, and from 
his size he guessed it was Espinosa. Before he 
was lost in the darkness, Neal made out two other 
figures, that rose up as though they had been lying 
on the ground waiting. The three moved off to¬ 
ward the splotch of jungle along the river. 

Neal’s mind came back from romance to the 
grim problem of dollars and dangers. He saw now 
this ranch was worth three or four times what he 
was to have paid for it, so of course they did 
not intend he should ever come in possession of it. 

As Mrs. Krider had intimated, they would use the 
trick of law if possible. That failing there were 
the little wooden crosses down there, toward which 
Espinosa and his conspirators were now moving. 

To hold his title through the court he would 
have to do one of two things: Pay off the mortgage 
now past due, or prove the mortgage had been 
fraudulently drawn. To raise the money was not 
even thinkable. He could not raise another thousand 
dollars if his neck depended upon it. His chances 
in court were practically as hopeless. He knew 
nothing of their law, of their procedure. He had 
no friends and no funds to help the case along. 



A MIDNIGHT RIDE 


79 


His chances of winning out in a fight with 
Bernard Williams and this Espinosa, trained grafters, 
with a well-organized band of followers, seemed 
fantastically small. 

And yet this was a wonderful ranch, the sort 
of thing he had set his heart on. And over there 
to the west was the Ranch of the Star, where 
slept to-night the adorable Senorita Maria. To let 
go meant to lose both his past and his future, 
his money and his dreams. To win meant- 

Once more his speculations were broken. The 
three figures were coming back from toward the 
splotch of jungle by the river. They passed as 
noiselessly as possible over the cobbles, not speaking, 
and entered the big gate in the wall through which 
the teams and carts passed. 

Neal slipped into his room and out again, through 
the door that opened upon the inner court. The 
three had stopped. 

“Guizman,” Espinosa was speaking, “you stay 
here and watch this gringo. Pedro will go back 
early to-morrow to the camp.” 

Neal went back into his room, closed the door 
and fastened it, and then lay down across the bed 
with his clothes on. 



CHAPTER IX 


MR. WILLIAMS GETS BUSY 

DERNARD WILLIAMS did not feel as satisfied 
after Senor Smith left his office as he usually 
did at the conclusion of an interview. It had 

gone too easy. Of course, occasionally good luck 
like that happened. A few times in Senor Williams’ 
checkered career some bird with a well-feathered nest 
had flown in and asked to be plucked. But usually 
it took salt on their tails in the shape of references, 
samples, official reports of borings, statistics and a 
whole lot of convincing persuasion. 

Of course this man Smith might be one of the 
Heaven-sent suckers, but it seemed improbable that 
one would arrive at the exact moment when he 
was worst needed. If Senor Smith really went back 
to Cordoba and turned over $25,000 in gold to 
Moses then this was the greatest little old world 
ever flung into space 

At least it was worth hoping for, but at best not 
safe to check on. In the meantime he would be up 
and stirring. Rumors of a new revolution were 
coming thick and fast, and if his gigantic project 
for free ports went through he must get Carranza’s 


MR. WILLIAMS GETS BUSY 81 

signature while he was yet able to sign. That 
damned Valdez must be stirred into action. 

Williams had looked into Senor Valdez’s affairs. 
While his ranch was one of the finest in eastern 
Mexico, money was very scarce, and the senor had 
had great difficulty in borrowing enough to meet 
his pay roll. The World War had boosted prices 
of almost everything else, but strangely it had 
simply shot the bottom out of the coffee market. 
Besides it had made shipping very difficult. Thus, 
while Senor Valdez was actually worth twenty mil¬ 
lion pesos in land and stock he was desperately 
in need of money—even a thousand dollars in gold 
was an item with him. And the ten thousand that 
Williams had offered might save his whole crop. 

“That being the case,” Bernard Williams reasoned, 
“he’ll stand some pressure. That is the system— 
discover how much pressure each man will stand 

without blowing up and then apply it.” 

Williams sent off a telegram that morning and 
a letter, the telegram to Senor Valdez. 

Come to Mexico City at once. Bring papers. 

The letter to Espinosa. 

Am calling old Valdez into the city. Will keep him 
here two or three days. This is your chance to get busy 
with that peach of a senorita. Better move fast, for I 

may take a notion I want her myself. 

Show Senor Smith, whom I sent down, a good time. 


82 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


If he turns over twenty-five thousand in gold to you, 
ship twenty thousand of it to me, and keep five thousand 
of it to buy stockings and hair ribbons for the Maria 
peach. 

Ell be down shortly. 

Then Williams left his office and went down 
to the Zocolo. He walked slowly around the 
entire square, pausing in front of the National 
Palace, watching and listening. Mexicans with fierce 
eyes and mustaches went in and out. Official-look¬ 
ing persons drove up in cars and disappeared within. 
The soldiers who stood guard at the entrance of the 
middle arch, which led to the executive offices, from 
time to time exchanged significant glances as a 
colonel or general passed within. 

Williams watched for an hour and then went 

around to the Monte Piedad, the national pawn 
shop. There was a line in front of the appraise¬ 
ment window running clear out into the street: 
Women with children holding to their skirts, carry¬ 
ing pieces of battered silverware, men with opera 
glasses, girls with rings, an old man with a lamp, 
a woman with a child’s cradle, all crowding up 
to get a few pesos or centavos on their property. 

Williams turned away shaking his head and 

sniffing his bulbous nose. There was something 

in the wind and no mistake about it. These people 

felt the rising of a revolution as wild animals in 
the woods feel the coming of a fire. 


MR. WILLIAMS GETS BUSY 


83 


“I’ve got to move fast.” He walked across to 
Bolivar Street. “If Valdez can’t work it there 
are two men that can. But they come high, the 
damned grafters. If only I had twenty thousand 
more in gold!” His short, stubby fingers shut into 
his thick palms. “To miss ten million for lack of 
only twenty thousand, wouldn’t that be the curse of 
luck! 

“I’ll go after Senor Smith.” He turned with 
quick resolution. “If he has twenty-five thousand 
about him I’ll get it.” 


CHAPTER X 


THE MESSAGE 

S ENOR ESPINOSA was riding across the coffee 
fields in the early afternoon. He had men hoeing 
among the coffee bushes, and Espinosa was an 
exacting taskmaster. Of amazing physical vitality 
himself he was seldom tired, and he had learned 
that the way to please Senor Williams was to get 
things done. The Senor Williams wanted the ranch 
looking always very good, for sometimes the men 
who bought it came to see it first. And every 
time it sold Espinosa got 1,000 pesos, and every 
time they got rid of a buyer he got 1,000 pesos 
more. Not only so, but Senor Williams was to 
divide some very large profits on other things with 
him. 

There are several very common misconceptions 
of Mexicans. One of them is, that a Mexican is 
a shiftless, lazy ne’er-do-well, who is perfectly con¬ 
tented on a crust and a cigarette. It is not so. 
Most of the Spaniards who came to Mexico were 
from the north of Spain, fair-skinned, browm-haired 
and thrifty as a Connecticut Yankee. Their descend¬ 
ants, mixed with Indian blood, are fond of money, 


THE MESSAGE 85 

and are ambitious to get on, and, given half a 
show, will work hard. 

Espinosa was ambitious. He had come far in 
his twenty-eight years; from nothing to the ad¬ 
ministrator of a big ranch, and by saving his 
wages and otherwise he had accumulated considerable 
property of his own. He was fond of display and 
spent money on clothes and ornaments. Also 
he was fond of women, but spent very little money 
on them, often instead he would take money 
from them. A Mexican of his type is very cruel 
to women. 

As Espinosa rode leisurely along the road that 
ran through the coffee field, looking to the right 
and the left, he idly tapped his boot with his 
riding whip. He was puzzling over his new 
problem, the damned gringo who at first had told 
him his name was Ashton, but later returned and 
asked to be called Smith. This gringo was a 
weak one—a glance showed that. His hands were 
soft, he had no muscle, he came scarcely up to 
Espinosa’s eyes, and the big Mexican knew that 
with one swipe he could crush the life out of him. 
The fellow was ignorant, too, didn’t know what a 
boiling vat was in the sugar mills. Espinosa could 
get rid of him at any time, in a half dozen ways. 
But he was waiting for word from Senor Williams. 
That telegram meant that Williams had some reason 


86 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


for wanting him to stay on the ranch. He would 
just wait. 

But another thing puzzled and annoyed Espinosa. 
The gringo had been going about the fields all 
day with the negro, and whenever he stopped 
to talk with the peons a few moments, the fools 
acted as though they were pleased, and when he 
had passed on, they wagged their heads at each 
other as though something good had happened. 
What was it the gringo was doing and saying that 
made them seem so tickled with themselves ? 

Espinosa crossed over into the sugar fields and 
stopped beside a bunch of cane cutters. 

“What was the gringo saying ?'” he asked one of 
the hands. The peon’s face looked blank and he 
shook his head. 

“Ah, nothing; only how did I cut a hole in my 
breeches without cutting my leg?” 

Espinosa asked others, but got equally evasive 
answers. What they told him was mere piffle. Per¬ 
haps after all it was because the American was a 
fool that these Mexican fools seemed pleased by 
what he said. 

Espinosa jumped on his horse and started gallop¬ 
ing across the fields toward the ranch house. He 
would make that Krider woman tell him all she 
knew about the gringo. She knew more than she 
let on. He was convinced of that. He even had 


THE MESSAGE 87 

a dark suspicion that she had caused him to come 
to Mexico. 

At the gate a Mexican, crouching by the fence, 
leaped up and came quickly to Espinosa’s horse and 
caught the rein. The big Mexican started to strike 
him with his whip, but the poor devil lifted his 
hand and said piteously: “No, no, senor—no strike. 

I bring message from very great man. He say-” 

“He say what?” Espinosa leaned over the saddle 
eagerly. 

“ ‘Beware Senor Smith—see nothing harm him. 
He on secret mission!’ ” 

And with that the Mexican loosened the reins, 
leaped over the fence and was gone in the brush 
beside the road. 



CHAPTER XI 


BLANCO STICKS 


FTER lunch Thursday, Neal walked out into 



** the coffee fields. The weather was delightful. 
There had been a heavy shower the day before, and 
the glossy green leaves were washed clean and the 
ground strewn with the white petals of the coffee 
bloom. 

The coffee tree is not a tree, but a bush, about 
the size of a lilac bush. They are planted about 
six feet apart and few of them grow higher than 
a man’s head. The leaves are a bit like those of a 
persimmon tree, and a cluster of blossoms appears 
at the root of the leaf, where later the berries 
grow, five or six in one cluster. Coffee grows in 
an altitude of not less than 1,700 feet and not more 
than 3,500. The weather must never be too hot 
and never cold. To protect the berry from too 
much sun it is necessary to have shade. The best 
shade for coffee fields is the huisache* a thorn 
tree which casts a scattering shade similar to a 
locust tree. A coffee field looks like a scattering 
grove of locust trees with thick green underbrush. 
The underbrush is the coffee. The trees must be 
cultivated regularly, for the amount of coffee de- 


BLANCO STICKS 


89 


pends upon the care of the soil. The young coffee 
plant begins to bear in eighteen months and, if 
cared for, continues to bear for a hundred years. 

Neal noticed with the pride of an owner that 
the trees looked vigorous and healthy and were 
full of blossoms and young berries. The soil 
was loose and rich and had been kept well stirred. 
He went toward a half dozen peons hoeing among 
the trees. 

“Buenas tardes.” Neal spoke pleasantly. 

They all straightened up and smiling replied with 
real enthusiasm. “Buenas tardes, senor 

Long before the radiophone, there was both an 
animal and a human wireless. All the beasts of a 
jungle know when an enemy is loose in the woods. 
And a thousand men scattered about on a job can 
get the measure of a new man in a few hours. 
They do not have to talk with him themselves, 
they do not need his past history. They may 
make all sorts of wrong conjectures about him, 
and may get fooled; but they come to a common 
understanding of like or dislike, of fear or fellow¬ 
ship in a very short time. 

For three days Neal had gone about the ranch, 
casually greeting the laborers here and there. He 
stopped now and again and talked with them 
always in a natural, unforced way. Once or twice 
when he saw something funny he joked with them 
about it. 


90 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Wherever he went he left them intensely curious 
as to who he was, and what he was doing on the 
ranch. Nothing he said, however, gave them any 
clew. 

He crossed over from the coffee field into sugar 
cane and signaled to Blanco to come to him. They 
went off and sat down in the shade under a mango 
tree. Nothing warms up a negro’s heart like a 
good shade. 

“Blanco,” he asked, “how much do you like 
Senor Espinosa ?” 

“Ah likes Espinosa?” The negro scratched his 
ear, and slowly shook his kinky head as though 
the problem was beyond him. “Ah likes him just 
about one fo’th as much as Ah does one of these 
heah bloodhounds on a dahk night.” 

Neal grinned for a moment, then pinching his 
chin between thumb and forefinger, looked off to¬ 
ward the ranch houses and frowned. 

“Blanco,” he said in a troubled tone, “I am 
going to tell you something. There is to be 
trouble on this ranch. It will be between Espinosa 
and me. I don’t know which will win out. He 
has got all the edge, but I’ve got you.’* 

The sooty face grinned broadly. 

“How come you got me?” 

“Oh, naturally you’ll stick to me.” Neal’s gray 
eyes looked steadily at the negro. “You’ll go to 


BLANCO STICKS 


9i 


heaven if you do, but you’d go to hell if you 
stuck to Espinosa.” 

“That ain’t the p’int.” Blanco shook his head 
dubiously. “It ain’t whar Ah’m goin’ but how- 
soon Ah’m goin’. Ah’d ruther go to hell thirty 
years from now than go to heaven day aftah to¬ 
morrow.” 

Neal laughed. “The point is well taken.” In 
a moment he was sober again, and frowned doubt- 
ingly. “I am sure you’ll be in greater danger on my 
side than with Espinosa. He is a bad man, they 
say, and quick with a gun. You see, I bought 
this ranch, but they are planning to beat me out 
of it. And all the odds are against me. I have 
about one chance in eleven of beating them.” 

The negro reached into the pocket of his white 
cotton trousers and brought out a long-bladed, vi¬ 
cious-looking pocketknife and began to whet it on 
his shoe. He whetted for two or three minutes 
without a word, then felt the edge, and with his 
head bent over looked up so the whites showed 
under his eyes. 

“When does us begin to carve ’em up?” 

Neal laughed, but there was a catch in his throat. 
He had not misjudged his man. 

“Not until we have to. Don’t the Mexican’s 
ask you a lot about me?” 

“They shore does.” 

“Well, from now on tell them there is soon 


92 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


to be a new owner of the ranch, and that they 
are to have more wages and a fiesta every month!” 

Blanco grinned broadly. “That shore’ll be good 
news. Boss, you know how to manage Mexicans 
and—niggers.” 

“You can circulate around now. By the way, 
where is Espinosa to-day? Have not seen him since 
morning.” 

“He’s gone a-courtin’, I reckon. I saw Senor 
Valdez going to Mexico City this mornin’, and 
when I told Espinosa about it, right off he went 
to his house and dolled up and went a-gallopin’ 
off to the west.” 

“Blanco,” Neal spoke with sudden authority, “go 
get me the best horse on the ranch—and hurry.” 


CHAPTER XII 


DISTRUST 

TT was near sundown as Neal approached the 
* Hacienda of the Star, as he had named Senor 
Valdez’s ranch. He drew his horse down from a 
gallop to a walk. He did not know yet why he 
had come, and certainly there would be no excuse 
for charging full tilt at the gate. 

He had not thought much on the way except 
to urge his horse to greater speed. He had formu¬ 
lated no excuse to offer Senorita Maria for this 
unexpected call. He only knew he felt an urge 
that he could not explain to get to her as quickly 
as possible. It was preposterous of course to think 
she was in danger. Her Aunt Alicia and all the 
servants and the jefe of the guard afforded a sur¬ 
plus of protection. Besides, Senorita Maria was 
perfectly capable of taking care of herself. 

No, it was not a sense of danger for the senorita 
that urged him on, but of desecration. Neal, dur¬ 
ing those long years of uneventful life in the 
prosaic, sleepy village of Buckeye Bridge had dreamed 
not of women, but of one woman—a woman of sur- 


94 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


passing beauty, of rare fineness, touched with fire, 
and romance, and mystery. 

Senorita Valdez was that girl; he had known it 
the moment he met her in the road that first morn¬ 
ing. And the thought of Espinosa, the thick-necked, 
bold-eyed, insolent Mexican even coming into her 
presence angered Neal and made him push his 
horse into a gallop. 

As Neal rode toward the hacienda he was again 
struck by the gorgeous unreality of the place, the 
high, white ivory wall, the rich foliage, the perfect 
lines and exquisite color of the splendid house—a 
Moorish castle in a tropical wilderness. 

The big gate opened, a man, came out and 
mounted a horse, and rode down toward him. 

It was Espinosa. 

They both drew rein as they met and their eyes 
clashed. Neal, slender, quiet, unarmed, looked utterly 
defenseless. Espinosa, huge, fierce, and arrayed in 
the gorgeous costume of a caballero, carried a big 
gun on each hip and appeared the incarnation of 
aggressiveness. Yet as their eyes met, Neal's did 
not flicker. 

Espinosa’s face was still flushed as though he 
had left the hacienda under strong excitement— 
whether of pleasure or anger Neal could not tell. 

“Where is the senor going?” the Mexican asked 
with his polite inflection, but an insolent undertone. 

“Where you should never go,” replied Neal. 


DISTRUST 


95 

“And from where you should never return,” re¬ 
torted Espinosa with a smile of hate. 

“Yet perhaps I will.” Neal’s gray eyes narrowed 
slightly. “But don’t wait up for me, senor.” 

When Neal rang the bell, the gate did not open 
promptly as on his first visit. He waited and then 
rang again. There was another long wait and 
he grew uneasy; suppose he should not be admitted, 
or worse, suppose something had gone wrong. 

But a servant appeared and let him in. 

“I wish to see the Senorita Valdez,” he announced 
as the servant led him across the gardens to the 
house. 

There was another wait in the hall, and then 
he was taken to the patio. Senorita Maria was 
seated by a small table with her aunt, who was 
doing some sort of hand embroidery. 

The senorita received him very formally. At 
first he hoped it was merely because of Tia Alicia’s 
presence. But her polite and very cool exchange of 
civilities soon discouraged that notion. Neal was 
troubled—more he was alarmed. Perhaps her former 
friendliness had been but a mere flirting, and 
angered by that uninvited call she wished to put 
him in his place. 

“Do you speak English?” he asked Tia Alicia. 

“No, senor.” The aunt shook her head. 

“Then,” Neal remarked, turning to Senorita Maria, 


96 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“we will speak in English. Has my superintendent 
been annoying you?” 

The girl’s face flushed scornfully, her eyes looked 
dangerously dark. 

“Senor Espinosa is a friend I have known long 
time. He is not likely to be the one who annoys 
me.” 

The rebuff brought the blood to Neal’s face, and 
he felt a sickening anger at himself. What a fool 
he was, rushing off here to defend a girl against 
one of her own people, one who had been a friend 
for years. 

His eyes looked away at the palms, then up 
through the pepper tree to the sky. The swift, 
tropical twilight was thickening, and one star 
gleamed. 

“The Ranch of the Star,” he spoke reflectively, 
“and the Ranch of the Thorn. Mine is the Thorn, 
senorita, and it shall not again annoy the Star.” 

He arose and bowed. Her face changed color, 
her eyes grew more stormily balck, her smooth, soft 
lips shut tight. 

He turned to leave. A dozen steps and she had 
followed him. 

“Senor,” the word was a command, and he 
turned, looking at her with a puzzled frown. In 
the early dusk the dark hair, the fair face, lit by the 
angry eyes, was the most beautiful thing he had ever 
seen. 


DISTRUST 


97 


“Senor,” the tone was not so well controlled, “I 
hate you, I hate you, I hate you! Go very queekly 
and never come again.” 

“But, Senorita,” he protested, deeply hurt, 
“why-” 

She clapped for a servant. 

A few minutes later Neal was riding dazedly 

down through the dusk away from the Ranch of 
the Star. 

In sheer exasperation he kicked his heel into the 
horse’s ribs, and then apologized to the horse. 

“Mrs. Krider is only half right,” he spoke aloud 
as the horse galloped down the road. “She said I 
was a fool, but I’m a double-dyed fool, a blunder¬ 
ing, stammering, idiotic ass. My one chance of 

lasting even a week down here was to get posses¬ 
sion of the ranch. Now I’ve aroused Espinosa’s 
open hate and suspicion. My only hope of happi¬ 
ness was Senorita Maria and I’ve made her hate 

me. 

“A gosling that walks into a vat of boiling 
molasses is a King Solomon compared to me— 
damn!” 

Senorita Maria ran up three flights of stairs to 
the lookout and threw open the shutters. 

The sun was behind the mountains, but a pale 
pink glow of twilight lingered for a few brief 
moments. Across the open mesa a single rider 



98 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

spurred his horse angrily as though in great haste 
to flee the ranch. 

The girl’s face still burned hotly and her eyes 
followed that rider in tempestuous anger. Her 
fingers wrenched loose a bit of plaster from the 
stuccoed wall and flung it vindictively into the 
dusk toward the rider a half mile away. 

Then the swift darkness of the tropics swallowed 
up the last pink glow, and it was night. She 
shuddered as with cold. The hotness had passed 
from her cheeks and her heart. She felt little 
and alone, a slender wick of flame lost in a universe 
of darkness. 

If her mother had been alive she would have 
crept down and curled up in her arms. But her 
father did not like waves of emotion. They washed 
away, he said, the foundation of your will. Honor 
and wisdom and patriotism were the things that 
counted with her father, and her, too. She straight¬ 
ened rigidly. Only she was not wise. But she 
could hate as her father hated all traitors, and she 
could stand with a will of iron against the wash 
of sentiment, the warm engulfing waves of emotion 
that almost drowned her at times. 

The lone horseman was gone now, swallowed 
by the darkness and the jungle beyond the mesa. 
She would go down and talk to her father. 

Senor Valdez was in the library, a large room with 


DISTRUST 


99 


only one door, which opened not into any other 
room, but on the inner court. The heavy reading 
table and the chairs were of ebony, the floor was 
tesselated, on the walls were a half dozen paintings 
of old Spain, mostly portraits of distinguished an¬ 
cestors of the senor. In the left corner of the 
room near the door was a heavy cabinet with 
many drawers. It was carved and decorated by an 
infinite amount of the finest workmanship, and had 
been brought over from Spain in the early part 
of the sixteenth century. Beside it was a small 
trunk with bands of beaten silver, the panels between 
covered with silk. That, Senorita Maria knew, had 
been her mother’s trunk. It too had come from 
Spain with her great-great-great-grandmother. 
Hung on the walls thrown over the bookcase, 
draped over the cabinet, were rare Oriental tapestries. 
There were pieces of Chinese cloth as firm of tex¬ 
ture and bright of color as when first loaded on 
Spanish ships three hundred years ago. 

When the roving traders of the sixteenth century 
discovered that the land which Columbus had dis¬ 
covered was America and not Asia, they still per¬ 
sisted in making the discovery a short cut to the 
Orient. Cargoes of precious stuff were brought 
across the Pacific from India and China to the west 
coast of Mexico, carried by pack trains up through 
Colima, Guadalajara, Mexico City, and from there 
down to the eastern seacoast to be reshiped to 


IOO 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Europe. Inevitably in transit much of these precious 
cargoes were left in Mexico and still enrich the 
homes of the old grandees. Some of this rare old 
stuff has been scattered about through the fortunes 
of war or the forces of poverty, and may be found 
in the most unexpected places. 

Senor Valdez was sitting by the lamp on the 
table reading when Maria entered. He arose. The 
senor always treated his daughter with the same 
formal respect he would show a countess. 

Maria gave him a nod—there was always a bit 
of endearment in this nod for her father—slipped 
into a chair on the oposite side and leaned her 
elbows on the table. With the tip of her second 
finger she made marks on the ebony. 

“Can’t quite write my name in it, but there is 
some dust here, daddy.” 

He had resumed his chair and looked at his 
daughter with straight, inquiring eyes. She had 
come for something. His face even when turned 
upon Maria, held that look of aloof dignity of race 
and long mental isolation. The senor lived much 
in a world of thought and speculation, which, being 
a true Spaniard, he did not consider it worth while 
to discuss with his womenfolk. 

“Daddy,” that was one English word Maria loved 
to use, and, as she said it, he knew she was swinging 
her foot under the table. 


DISTRUST 


lul 

“Si, Maria,” he waited for her to go on, for back 
of the iron look in his dark eyes always lurked an 
unexpressed fondness for his little girl. 

“Daddy,” she looked up and her large, black eyes 
were wistful, “are all Americans liars?” 

Senor Valdez smiled. 

“The Holy Book, I believe, says all men are 
liars; I suppose that would include Americans.” 

“The Holy Book must exaggerate,” said Maria, 
“for you are not a liar.” 

Senor Valdez laughed, and then frowned when 
he remembered a girl should not make such com¬ 
ments on the Holy Word. But Maria forestalled 
reproof by another question. 

“Do you love Senor Espinosa very much?” She 
darted at him a provocative look. 

Senor Valdez shrugged with distaste. 

“No, he is low born and I doubt his loyalty.” 

There was a moment’s pause, Maria’s eyebrows 
went up, her eyes looked down to a finger idly 
marking the top of the table. 

“He does not look like a liar nor talk like one.” 

“Of whom are you speaking?” The tone was 
peremptory. 

“Of Senor Ashton.” 

“We do not know him.” Senor Valdez spoke in 
a neutral tone, but there was no shrug of distaste. 
“Merely a stranger that we offered the courtesy due 


102 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


any man who comes to our gate. We have seen 
him but twice.” 

“Sometimes,” Maria could not resist a coquettish 
smile, “one learns much of a man in a twice.” 

“Daughter,” Senor Valdez leaned forward in his 
chair and looked at Maria straightly, “these are 
troublous times. Poor Mexico has suffered much 
from within and without. Much of her troubles 
are of her own brewing. But she has suffered at 
the hands of America too. Perhaps more from 
misunderstanding than ill will, but anyway America 
has helped enemies more than us. There are those 
here who would stir up revolutions for their own 
greedy ends. They want our rich mines and oil and 
coffee and sugar as prizes for backing corrupt 
leaders. 

“Many Americans are our loyal friends, many 
are not. We do not know them. This man who 
comes with friendly speech may be one or the 
other. But he is a stranger, not of our people, 
not of our class. Do not forget that.” 

Senorita Maria marked idly on the table, her 
lips closed, her face blank. 

“I will not, father.” 

“And, Maria”—her father got to his feet, an 
unusual sign of deep concern with her—“the clouds 
are lowering over our poor country again. I fear 
the storm will break soon. And this time only the 
merciful God knows what will be left. 


DISTRUST 


103 


“Times are very difficult. I must be away for 
some days in Mexico City. You will watch all 
strangers that come. Be very discreet, see they 
get no information—and do not trust the senor 
Americano.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


A SETBACK 

/^\NE may acquire a southern lisp, a Boston ac- 
cent, a seat in Congress, a million dollars, or 
almost anything else in the world but one—the 
instincts of a gentleman. That is a thing one 
cannot pick up. If he has not got it, he has not 
got it, and that is all there is to it. And it means 
no more or less than this: An intuitive under¬ 
standing of the other fellow and a nice regard for 
his feelings. 

Bernard Williams had lived in Mexico a long 
time. He was sure he knew all about Mexicans— 
the damned lazy greasers, the scheming liars, the 
greedy grafters. He could sit and tell you by the 
hour of this one who had failed to show up on 
a job, of that one who had promised to pay on the 
third, and did not pay on the thirty-third, of another 
that worked a graft for ten thousand pesos. And 

he would wind with: “If the damned - would let 

us take things over, we’d show them how to do 
things.” 

But Bernard Williams never proceeded to show 
the visitor how he did things. That was far in the 
background. And in spite of his years of contact 



A SETBACK 


105 


with the people, he knew less of the real Mexicans 
than a sympathetic understanding traveler might have 
known in one day. They traded with him and 
sometimes worked for him, because one must have 
bread. But they never told him anything about 
themselves, and what they really thought and felt 
was as far from him as the Andes from an Iowa 
farmer. 

When Senor Valdez entered the office on Cinco 
de Mayo Street, Williams saw only one thing— 
the Spaniard had been prompt to answer his sum¬ 
mons and therefore must be very hard up and ready 
to do anything for the ten thousand pesos. Accord¬ 
ingly he assumed the air, if not the tone, of a ward 
boss ordering a henchman about. 

“Been to Carranza yet?” he asked abruptly, even 
omitting the “senor.” 

Valdez touched his pointed beard with the tips of 
his fingers and shook his head. 

“Not yet, senor.” 

“We've got to get a move on us,” said Williams 
hustlingly. “The old man’s life is not insured in 
our favor, you know. I’ll order a cab, and we’ll 
drive down to the National Palace and you can 
go right up and clinch matters this morning.” 

Valdez’s eyes held a half melancholy look of 
patient politeness. 

“One does not see the presidente, senor, without 
an appointment.” 


106 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

“Well, when can you get an appointment? How 
long will it take ? I thought you were such a 
high muck-a-muck you could walk right in and 
wipe your feet on his parlor rug/’ 

Senor Valdez shrugged: “One does not force 
his presence upon even a friend. Perhaps it might 
be arranged to-morrow, perhaps within a week.” 

Williams exploded irritably. “Oh, damn this 
manana stuff! Why can’t you people ever get 
down to business and cut out the palaver.” 

“Senor, with us,” Valdez spoke with tired dignity 
as though explaining to a dull, persistent child, 
“there are things more important than business.” 

“Not on your life,” laughed Williams disagree¬ 
ably. “You may think there is, but when it comes 
down to the scratch you’ll drop everything to grab 
the almighty dollar. 

“Well,” Williams continued, frowning with re¬ 
strained impatience, “if you can’t see him to-day 
then do it to-morrow, or the day after at the latest.” 

Valdez had taken the papers from his pocket, 
looked at them particularly to see if they were 
the right ones, and then handed them to Williams. 

“Senor, there are, I believe, the papers you in¬ 
trusted to my unworthy keeping.” 

Williams took them, and wriggling his colorless 
eyebrows, looked blank surprise. 

“Yes, but keep them. They are the ones Carranza 
is to sign.” 


A SETBACK 107 

“I do not wish to present them to the presidente.” 
Valdez had arisen. 

“Why?” Williams’ adder nose swelled at the 
end. “What is the big idea? Isn’t ten thousand in 
gold enough for one day’s work?” 

“Too much, senor.” A subtle irony was in the 
cultured tone. “Good-by, senor.” A slight bow and 
Senor Valdez turned and passed out of the door. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Williams’ face was almost 
purple. “Got cold feet at the last moment. That 
leaves it up to Medoza, the grafter. He can get 
the signature but it means twenty thousand. 

“I must go after Smith and sell him that ranch.” 

Sunday afternoon Espinosa met Williams at 
Cordoba. They said little until they were well 
on the road out of town. The Mexican was in a 
sullen mood. 

“What is the matter, old sport?” Williams spoke 
jocularly. “Lost ten centavos on a chicken fight? 
How is Senor Smith getting along?” 

“Ah, Senor Smith.” The big Mexican spat 
vehemently, and the muscles of his arm swelled as 
his fingers clutched the riding whip. “The damned 
gringo, the devil take him.” 

“What has the innocent little Smithy done ? 
Haven’t had trouble, have you?” 

Espinosa’s large, dark face grew a livid red. 
His eyes looked murderous. 


io8 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

“Bah!” He spat violently. “I keel hem if it 
not been for senor’s telegram.” 

“That’s right,” Williams’ tone was joshing; “re¬ 
strain your murderous impulse. Senor Smith wants 
to buy a ranch, and we need the money. The 
other fellow has not come along yet?” 

“No one else, senor.” 

Williams chuckled as they rode on. This was 
good news. He would perhaps be able to sell to 
Smith and get rid of him before Dickman’s buyer 
arrived. Anyway they would get Smith’s money. 

“You must be good to Smithy, senor,” Williams 
said placatingly. “He has got much dinero that 
we need in our business. What has the chap been 
doing? Wandering around with his head in the 
air, sucking in romance?” 

“He meddle with the men in the field.” Espinosa’s 
wrath went too deep to be chaffed away. “He tell 
them they should get seventy centavos a day instead 
of sixty. He say to me, ‘Fix that cane mill; too 
much juice go to waste.’ The fool! As if he knew 
about a cane mill. And he have all the women cook¬ 
ing. He say he give a fiesta to-night. He waste 
a hundred pesos’ worth of food.” 

This was the best news Williams had heard. It 
meant that Smith had made up his mind to buy 
the ranch. But the Mexican’s smoldering wrath 
broke out again. 


A SETBACK 


109 


‘‘The damned gringo son of a pig go to Senor 
Valdez.” 

“He did?” Williams sat up startled. “When?” 

“Once when he first come. Again Thursday, while 
Senor Valdez away.” 

“The devil!” Williams was scowling. “What 

did he go for?” Perhaps that was why Valdez 

had turned back the papers. 

The Mexican shrugged both shoulders con¬ 

temptuously. 

Williams grinned. 

“The fool he just go.” 

“Do you suppose he saw the senorita?” 

Espinosa swore fluently, bitterly in Spanish. 

Yes, the son of a pig had seen the senorita. But 
what he said no one knows. 

“Ah,” a gleam of malice came into his big eyes, 
“I fix hem. The senorita is mine—I take her by 
and by and Senor Valdez can go to purgatory.” 

It was sundown as they approached the hacienda. 
Off somewhere a Mexican was strumming a guitar. 
At the edge of the grove of live oak and bamboo 
where most of the peons’ huts were half hidden 
by the rank foliage there was singing and laughter. 
Williams had never heard such sounds of lightness 
and merriment on this ranch before. 

“Senor Smith’s fiesta is starting early.” 

Espinosa merely spat at the ground. 

Blanco, the big negro, met them at the gate, 


no 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


and took their bridle reins. His sooty face lighted 
with a broad grin, as he addressed Williams in dark 
Georgia English. 

“The boss wants to see you-all in the dinin’ 
room.” 

“The boss?” Williams grinned, but his nose 
swelled a little disagreeably. He didn’t like to be 
ordered around on his own ranch. 

Instead of going in, Williams gave Espinosa a 
signal with a twist of his thumb and they walked 
around the house to the corrals. 

“Tell me a little more about this fellow Smith,” 
said Williams. “He seems to be taking a whole lot 
for granted, even for an American.” 

But Espinosa was scarcely articulate on the sub¬ 
ject of Senor Smith; most of his information con¬ 
sisted of alternate oaths and spits at the ground. 

Three Mexicans were saddling horses. 

“What is this for?” Williams always spoke with 
rough authority when on the ranch. 

The peons lifted their brows and shrugged. “We 
do not know. It is the order of the Senor 
Americano.” 

“The devil!” Williams scowled as he and Espinosa 
walked on toward the sugar mill. “He is a little 
high-handed for a mere visitor. 

“See here, Moses,” he turned on Espinosa, “you 
don’t suppose this fellow could be connected with the 
revolution—or anything like that, do you?” 


A SETBACK 


hi 


Then Espinosa reluctantly told of the peculiar mes¬ 
sage he had received about Senor Smith. 

Williams scowled harder than ever and his nose 
swelled at the end. 

“It doesn’t look good. I tell you we’ll just nip 

anything like that in the bud. I’m going to pin 

the presumptuous donkey down and find whether 

he is a real buyer or not. I’ll make him say yes 

or no on the spot. If I discover he is up to some 
sort of a trick-” He looked at Espinosa sig¬ 

nificantly. 

“I’ll see Guizman and Barcola at once.” Espinosa 
jumped eagerly at Williams’ implied meaning. “They 
will attend to the gringo son of a pig during the 
fiesta to-night.” 

“But remember,” Williams ordered severely, “not 
unless I give you the signal. If he really is a buyer 
for the ranch—and has dinero—Heaven sent him. 
And never lay hands, Moses, on a Heaven-sent 
visitor.” 

“Si, si assented Espinosa. But added reassur¬ 
ingly: “He has no dinero, senor. The devil sent 
him only to make trouble.” 

As Williams turned back to the house the big 
Mexican hurried off to find his two most trusted 
assassins, and to give them directions for the fiesta. 

Neal had waited in the dining room for the arrival 
of the two men. He had seen them ride up, had 



II2 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


given Blanco his instructions. When they did not 
come in he began to grow uneasy. Had they be¬ 
come suspicious or worse, had they discovered his 
real identity ? 

He had known it was only a matter of a few 
days at best before Williams discovered that he 
was Ashton, the dupe of Dickman’s late sale. 

He sat down at the table in the dining room 
and waited. Whatever Williams and Espinosa were 
up to, curiosity if nothing else would bring them 
in to see him. 

Neal appeared to be figuring with a pencil on 
some loose sheets of paper before him when they 
did enter. He merely looked up and nodded. 

“Be seated, gentlemen. ,, 

And as Williams took a chair he glanced through 
the open door and saw Blanco and three Mexicans 
standing as though in call, their eyes watching 
him and Espinosa. 


CHAPTER XIV 

BLUFF! 


DOETS and romancers have recounted thrilling 
* stories of knights who rode straight from the 
arms of their true loves to victory. But if the 
statistics were all in you would find most fights 
have been won by newly jilted lovers. It is in that 
devil-may-care state which follows the utter collapse 
of a romance that a fellow strikes out most reck¬ 
lessly and ruthlessly. 

Neal had never been disappointed in love before, 
because he had never been in love before, so he 
knew neither symptoms nor remedies. 

After his violent and unexplained rebuff by 
Senorita Valdez he had been filled with a vast 
emptiness of gray gloom. It did not make a bit 
of difference whether he kept the ranch or lost it; 
it did not make any difference whether he lived 
or died. What did any of it amount to, what did 
it all amount to if the star of his romance had 
been plucked out of the sky by the dirty hand of 
a half-breed? That is what it came to. He was 
convinced of that. She was in love with Espinosa— 
there was no other reason for her violent rebuff 
of him. 


U4 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Very well. They had swindled him out of his 
money, they had robbed him of the shimmering 
romance of this tropic land, and left it a dark, 
sinister stretch of poisoned wickedness. So be it. 
He would fight. The long years of peace and 
dreams sometimes turn into a fury of vengeance. 

Before, he had intended to use diplomacy—cau¬ 
tion. He would master the ins and outs of the 
ranch, learn the cane and coffee growing, become 
acquainted with all the details of administration 
before he undertook to depose the administrator. 
But now caution puffed away like a whiff of dust. 
He was going to start something. 

Bernard Williams’ small eyes shifted inquiringly 
from the black face of Blanco at the open door 
to Espinosa. The Mexican merely lifted his brows, 
and gave a faint shrug of his large shoulders as 
though to say all arrangements had been made. Wil¬ 
liams’ adder nose swelled, but his tone was affable 
as he turned to Neal. 

“Well, Senor Smith, how do you like my ranch?” 

“I like the ranch.” Neal looked at him coolly. 
He had been figuring on a sheet of blank paper 
and the pencil was still in his fingers. 

“You have decided to buy it, then?” suggested 
Williams, putting his elbows on the table and con¬ 
centrating on his prospect as he always did in 
closing a deal. 


BLUFF! 


115 

Neal’s eyes were following the tip of his pencil 
as he lightly sketched a long, narrow box. 

‘’I have already bought it.” The tone was coolly 
matter of fact. The pencil finished putting a dark, 
heavy lid on the box—it looked like a coffin. “I 
bought it from Dickman before I came to Mexico.” 

The Mexican’s chair scraped on the floor. Wil¬ 
liams laughed—at least the sound was meant for 
a laugh. It took him so at a surprise that he 
needed a minute to get his mind working. 

“Oh, I see.” He was sober enough now—almost 
sympathetic. “You are the man Dickman wrote me 
about.” 

“I am Neal Ashton.” The tone made the name 
stand out as though it were visible in the air. 

“I see.” Williams was still floundering for the 
right opening. “I am sorry,” his tone contained 
the apology a policeman might offer before biffing 
a troublesome customer, “that Dickman could not 
give you more time on the main payment. He 
wrote me he had taken a small deposit; but the 
purchaser had failed to come through on time 
with the rest.” Neal sat still, save that his pencil 
was lightly sketching a horse—and his eyes followed 
the pencil. 

“Of course you understand,” Williams spoke a 
little uneasily—it is hard to put over anything with 
a fellow who only listens—you don’t know how far 
you have got at each step—“of course you under- 


n6 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

stand, that your getting the ranch depended upon 
your paying off the mortgage which was due April 
15th. You see, you simply paid Dickman $10,000 
for his equity in the ranch. But as you did not 
come across with the rest and pay off the mortgage 
we simply closed it.” 

“In one day?” Neal’s tone was lightly ironic; 
the pencil was sketching the sides of the horse, 
a very dark horse. 

Williams moved his elbows on the table as though 
getting a firmer position. 

“Well, rather, we did not need to legally foreclose 
it at all, we just kept possession 

Neal sketched on—the pencil slipping on the paper 
the only sound in the room. 

“You know the law in this country,” it was not 
the first time Williams had invented Mexican laws 
on the spur of the moment, “is this: If you have 
a mortgage on a piece of property, and the man 
who gave it leaves the property in your possession, 
then when the mortgage is due it is just auto¬ 
matically yours without any action at law.” 

Neal dropped the pencil as though tired of draw¬ 
ing and looked up, glancing around the room. He 
signaled for a servant. 

A Mexican girl appeared almost instantly from 
the inner doorway. 

As Neal turned to her, Williams caught Espinosa’s 


BLUFF! 


ii 7 

eyes and gave him the signal, and the big Mexican 
pushed his chair back to rise. 

“Senorita,” Neal addressed the servant with the 
same human respect he showed all classes, “bring 
coffee, some cold meat and fruit. The senors wish 
a bite of food before their long ride.” 

“Si, senor.” The girl gave a little curtsy and 
showed very white teeth as she hurried away smiling. 

“Long ride?” Williams’ nose swelled most positively 
and his tone changed to a belligerent threat. “Just 
what are you getting at, Smith-•” 

“Ashton,” corrected Neal. 

“Well, Ashton, or anything else you please. Just 
what do you think you are doing anyway here on 
my ranch?” 

Neal arose. Both the men watched him closely 
to see he did not reach for a gun. Instead, his 
right hand rested on the back of the chair. He was 
slender and not muscular. His hands were long and 
soft. Certainly he did not look like a fighter. But 
there was no mistaking that he was a man to reckon 
with. 

“Williams,” he looked down at the bulbous nose, 
and there was an ironic devil in his gray eyes, “you 
sold the ranch once too often. I am in possession. 
If you get it again it will be by due process of 
law through every court in Mexico. 

“When you two have eaten, you ride to Cordoba. 



n8 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

We are having a fiesta to-night and I am particular 
about the company my peons keep.” 

Turning to the door he gave a signal. The big 
negro and three strapping Mexican field hands 
stepped inside. 

“Blanco,” Neal spoke with authority, “when the 
senors have finished you four ride with them to 
Cordoba and bring the horses back.” 

“Good evening, senors,” and Neal walked from 
the room without looking back. 


CHAPTER XV 


NEAL TAKES POSSESSION 



S Neal climbed the stairs after the scene with 


Williams and Espinosa, his knees were so weak 
that he sat down on the top step. He felt positively 
sick. It was the first time he had ever tried to put 
over a real bluff and Heaven knew whether or not 
it was going to work. He had discovered that the 
Mexicans on the ranch nearly all hated Espinosa, but 
to a man were deathly afraid of him. If the three 
peons that Blanco had picked to help him ride these 
fellows off the ranch knew what they were doing they 
would die in their tracks. But Blanco had merely told 
them they were to act as guards to protect Senor 
Williams and Senor Espinosa from bandits—and 
Neal had instructed Blanco to keep them well in 
the rear out of reach of conversation. 

If it really worked and the big negro succeeded 
in putting the two off the ranch it would be an 
initial victory of big importance. It would only 
be temporary, reflected Neal, but it would leave 
him in definite possession of the ranch, and they 
could dislodge him only after a legal foreclosure of 
the mortgage. 

Anyway, he began to chuckle at the thought of 


120 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


those two desperate villains riding solemnly to town 
in front of Blanco’s gun; it would be a rich piece 
of satisfaction if it worked. 

The fiesta was in full swing when Neal went out 
an hour later. One blessed thing about a Mexican 
peon is he does not need anybody to entertain 
him. Turn him loose with a bite to eat and drink 
and he will take care of his own amusement. 

Neal had ordered a steer barbecued, stacks of 
tortillas, and pots and pots of frijoles. There 
were loads of fruit—and drinks. The Mexicans 
love to drink. At every station where the train 
stops, at every corner in town, there are bottles 
and pails and glasses of drinks, most of them harm¬ 
less concoctions of orange and pineapple juice or 
even mere sweetened water. Pulque is the common 
intoxicant, and is about as alcoholic as three per cent 
beer. Tequilla is the drink with the violent kick. 
A man is drunk almost as soon as it is swallowed. 
But the peons get little of it. 

Neal had seen to it that drinks of orange juice, 
pineapple, and milk of coconut, all with ice, should 
be served bountifully first. After they were well 
filled up pulque was produced in abundance. So 
nobody got drunk, and the fiesta was hilarious with¬ 
out being dangerous. 

The Mexican is naturally very peaceable, very 
friendly; only when stirred by a violent drink or 
a violent sense of wrong does he start trouble. 


NEAL TAKES POSSESSION 121 

Neal passed about among them, eating and drink¬ 
ing with them, and much to their hilarity dancing 
with some of the women, particularly the very fat 
and ugly older senoras. 

At ten o’clock he called them all together and 
made them a little speech in Spanish. It was a 
simple, sincere talk in a conversational tone. 

“My friends, I am the new owner of the Rancho 
Huisache. I have taken possession to-day. I am 
a stranger, but already I like your country and I 
like you. The ranch has not always made money. 
We will need to work very hard and very care¬ 
fully. From to-day—from now I give you seventy 
centavos a day instead of sixty. If we make money, 
I will give you ten more next year. And we 
will have another fiesta by and by. I want you 
to be happy on my ranch, but you must work like 
devil-boys.” 

They laughed and waved their arms and shouted, 

<e si, sir 

Neal knew, as the fiesta broke up and the peons 
returned to their grass houses or ramadas, that 
he was a very popular man. These warm-hearted, 
impulsive children had swung over to him in their 
affection in a single week. 

“They love quickly as they hate quickly,” he 
said to himself. It gave him a sense of being 
enveloped and surrounded by their good will. And 


122 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


that feeling was a mighty comfort in this alien 
land where he had recklessly decided to fight to 
the death for what was his. 

Neal lingered outside after the rest had gone. 
Already most of them were in bed. Stillness was 
broken only now and then by a scrap of distant 
conversation or a brief outburst of belated laughter. 

He was listening for horses’ feet. All the evening 
he had gone about, half expecting at every turn 
to face an enraged American and a big Mexican 
who had escaped their guards and come back. 
Both of them were no doubt hard fighters, and 
that Blanco should succeed in riding them all the 
way to Cordoba seemed improbable. 

But even if he got them only off the ranch 
it left him in technical possession, and gave him 
a chance to fight. 

There was no sound of galloping horses on 
the road, and he turned toward the house, going 
in by the corral to see the stock was all right. 

The corral was inside the rectangle of high 
adobe walls which inclosed all the hacienda buildings, 
on the north side of the plazuela or square. 

The animals seemed all right, and he went on 
toward the house, passing along the east side of 
the square. Along this wall was a row of one- 
room adobe houses in which lived the keepers of 
the stock and the servants who worked about the 


NEAL TAKES POSSESSION 


123 


house. It was a warm night and these rooms had 
no windows—the doors were open, for those who 
slept inside the wall had little fear. All the lights 
were out, and the open doors showed as black spots 
in the deeply shadowed wall. 

Neal’s mind was still on Espinosa and Williams. 
He paused to listen again for the returning horse¬ 
men and did not notice that he had stopped di¬ 
rectly in front of one of the dark doorways. 

Inside two Mexicans crouched, and held their 
breath. They had been watching his approach since 
he left the corral. They were barefooted and held 
long knives in their right hands. One of them 
started to slip his left foot outside the door. The 
other touched him as a sign to wait. 

Neal again failed to hear any sound of riders 
on the road, glanced up at the stars a moment and 
then sauntered on. 

The two Mexicans crept out of the door as 
silently as patches of shadow and slipped after 
him. They were within ten feet, and half lifted 
their knives ready for a spring. 

Perhaps because Neal had been expecting and 
listening for the return of Espinosa, his hearing 
was very acute. He caught the sound of a slithery 
step behind him. He wore a light summer coat in 
the side pocket of which he carried an automatic, 
and his right hand was on it now. Walking on as 


124 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


casually as though he had not heard, he took his hand 
from his pocket—the gun with it, brought it up in 
front of him and pointed it back over his shoulder. 
Without checking his walk or turning his head 
he fired twice straight back. 

There were two sharp yells and the sudden 
scrambling of feet. When Neal turned the two 
were halfway to the corral and running in a way 
that indicated neither had been badly hit. He 
did not fire at them again but went on to the house. 

Neal stopped in the patio and sat down on a 
bench. He was not very much shaken by the 
incident for the reckless mood was still upon him. 
He had not much doubt, however, that he had been 
pretty close to the finish. 

“I wonder,” he looked up at the stars, “if she 
would have cared.” 

His mind was forever slipping back. Was she 
sleeping? Or did she, waking, see that star? Why 
had she turned against him so quickly ? Which 
was the real Maria? That vision of fragrant love¬ 
liness that stood so close that first night when he 
lost his heart everlastingly? Or was the real senorita 
the angry one of flame who had driven him from 
the hacienda with burning words of hate? 

“Where is Senor Espinosa ?” The voice which 
cut into his romancing made Neal jump. A woman, 
tall, threatening in her swift directness, came across 
the patio and stood before him. 


NEAL TAKES POSSESSION 


125 


“At Cordoba, Mrs. Krider,” Neal replied. He 
had not been able to figure out Mrs. Krider at all. 
Her seeming antagonism for him and her apparent 
partiality for the Mexican stirred his resentment. 

“What is he doing at Cordoba ?” Mrs. Krider’s 
sharp voice demanded accusingly. 

“Playing poker, perhaps,” Neal replied indiffer¬ 
ently, “or drinking tequilla. How should I know?” 

“Neal Ashton,” she pointed her right hand at 
him and spoke like a judge pronouncing sentence, 
“I just heard what you have done. You are the 
biggest, the damnedest fool that ever strayed out of 
a kindergarten. For God’s sake, why don’t you 
go back to Buckeye Bridge?” 

“Mrs. Krider,” the edge went off Neal’s resent¬ 
ment, for it seemed as though she was rather plead¬ 
ing with him than accusing him, “they haven’t fixed 
that crooked spire on the Methodist church yet. I 
can’t go back to Buckeye Bridge. 

“I’m either going to live here or you can fix 
up one of those little wooden crosses for me down 
there by the river. 

“Good night and pleasant dreams.” 

She was gone as quickly and violently as she 
came. Neal walked about the patio restlessly for 
*ome time. Then, looking up at the star again, 
shook his head. 

“I am a fool—I know it. I’ve dumped my money 


126 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


into their pockets. They’ll take the ranch away 
from me and they’ll get mt. But now that I 
have pitched in so much here goes all the rest. 
Senorita Maria, I love you, and I’m going to 
tell you so even if I’m stilettoed and damned for it.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE LAW 

A T one o’clock that night three men—two Mexi- 
** cans and an American—sat in an abogado’s 
office in Cordoba. The American was the maddest 
man in Mexico, excepting his Mexican companion. 
The lawyer was suavely endeavoring to reduce the 
pressure of their wrath. 

“Of a sureness I can regain your ranch, Sehor 
Williams,” declared Sanchez, the Mexican lawyer, 
positively. “It may take a little time, but it shall 
be attended to with all dispatch.” 

The heavily seamed skin on Williams’ jowls was 
livid, his colorless brows worked up and down 
painfully, his short hairy hands clenched. 

“I will simply go back in the morning and-” 

“No—no—no!” The abogado lifted protesting 
hands. “That will never do. It must be in ac¬ 
cordance with law.” 

“Law! Diablo!” Espinosa spat. He too was 
going back in the morning—and—— 

“It must be so, senors,” the lawyer urged most 
strongly. “If there should be any killing there 
will be trouble—much trouble. I am persuaded this 
man Sehor Smith has some one behind him. They 




128 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


will stir up Mexico City, and back in the States 
there will be inquiries and investigations, and there 
are extradition laws, Senor Williams. 

“Even should no great punishment come your 
business, Senor Williams, it will be hurt very bad. 
You remember the trouble once before-” 

“That's so,” admitted the American. “I would 
hate to have the devil of a row raised just now. 
But what is the quickest and surest way to do it?” 

“By legal process,” replied Sanchez. “We will 
start proceedings to-morrow.” 

“There is no doubt but we’ll win?” 

“Oh, not a doubt in the world, senor.” 

“But that will take time.” Williams was still 
reluctant. He needed an extra ten thousand right 
now. Instead of getting it as he hoped from 
Smith, Smith had ridden him off the ranch under 
guard. 

“But senors,” the lawyer leaned forward in the 
lamplight and locked his hands together, “this Senor 
Ashton perhaps very quickly will be willing to give 
up the ranch and get away.” He paused a moment. 
“If Carranza shall learn this senor is a meddlesome 
American trying to stir up a revolution-” 

“That’s the dope.” Williams wagged his head 
approvingly. “And we’ll see to that.” 

“Or,” continued the abogado cunningly, “if the 
revolutionists should hear that Senor Ashton is a 
friend of the presidente-” 





IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE LAW 129 

“Bien!” exclaimed Espinosa. He fancied far 
more the swift unlawful thrusts of the outlaw gangs, 
than the law of mortgages. Anyway he fancied 
from the instructions he had left before he was 
bodily ridden off the ranch, nothing would be 
needed. 

“Besides,” continued the lawyer, piling hope on 
hope, “the Senor Ashton will not know what to do 
on ranch. His men will quit. The sugar mill will 
be all wrong—the cattle, the horses—everything will 
be trouble—senor will be losing money very fast. 
He will want to quit. In a week, in two, perhaps 
he will come in and say, ‘Give me one thousand 
pesos and I’ll give back the Ranch of the Thorn.’ ” 

“Not a damned centavo.” Williams slapped his 
leg emphatically. 

“No?” The lawyer raised his brows, questioning 
the wisdom of that. “It might be better so.” 

“Not one damned centavo,” repeated Williams, re¬ 
calling the humiliation of that enforced ride. 

“I’ll have that ranch back within a month, and 
my guess is that if Senor Ashton’s friends want to 
put flowers on his grave they’ll have to buy them at 
Cordoba.” 

The big Mexican rubbed the back of his hand 
across his mouth, and then spat on the lawyer’s rug. 

“Buzzards will be his flowers.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


INSIDE NEWS 

\ TEAL rode out through the fields next morning.. 
^ The work all seemed going on as usual, except 
that the men were putting in more vim than before. 
Especially did they spurt up at sight of him. 

Espinosa had been a good superintendent, Neal 
had to admit that. The various gangs of workmen 
were well organized—one bunch handled the cane, 
another the sugar mills, a third took care of the 
coffee fields, a fourth managed the stock and did 
the hauling. Each group had its own foreman, 
which was very lucky for Neal, as the work could 
go ahead until he found a good man for super¬ 
intendent. Possibly he might learn fast enough to 
become his own superintendent. 

He was definitely planning to retain the ranch 
for a year. Senor Valdez had said, under the 
Mexican laws a man could not be evicted from his 
property under a mortgage foreclosure for at least 
twelve months. Neal was determined to take ad¬ 
vantage of every technicality. If possible he must 
get a little out of the ranch before it was taken from 
him. 


INSIDE NEWS 


131 

After making a circuit of the fields he returned 
to the sugar mills. 

A string of carts, each carrying two or three 
tons of cane was drawn up waiting their turn to 
unload on the long moving belt that carried the cane 
into the jaws of the grinder. The sugar mill was 
the most vital spot to watch just now. Bad man¬ 
agement here might lose hundreds of dollars a day. 

Neal stooped over and picked up a handful of 
the bagasse—the crushed stalk after the juice has 
been squeezed out of it. As he stood there, run¬ 
ning it through his fingers to see if it was as dry 
as it ought to be, he noticed a small boy edging 
nearer and nearer to him. The little chap’s face 
was full of fear and urgent haste, yet he was 
reluctant to intrude his presence on the great Ameri¬ 
can ranch owner. 

“Hello, muchacho.” Neal dropped the dry cane 
stalk and smiled at the boy. 

“Buenos dias, senor.” The little chap drew a 
quick breath of relief and edged a step nearer, 
and stood raking with his toes in the bagasse. He 
had quick black eyes, a clear brown skin, and a most 
winning smile. 

“Where have I seen you before?” asked Neal. 
“Do you live on the ranch?” 

“No, senor. On the road, the senor helped 
me load my donkey.” 


132 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“Oh, yes,” Neal laughed. “I remember now. Your 
name is Jose Marquard.” 

“Si, senor—and my father’s name.” And without 
any warning he sprang at Neal and grabbed him 
around the legs and buried his face on his feet 
and began to cry. “He is gone, my father. I think 
they kill him like my grandfather, and my uncle 
Juan.” 

Neal sat down and put his hand on the little 
chap’s shoulder, and quieted him until he could 
tell his story. 

“I think,” said Neal when he had finished, “they 
have not killed your father. He has gone away. 
Since they killed your grandfather and your uncle, he 
would be very watchful, and I don’t think they have 
caught him. You stay here on the ranch until we hear 
from him.” 

The little fellow grabbed Neal’s hands and kissed 
them. 

“The senor is ver’, ver’ good.” Then comforted, 
he began to smile eagerly. “But what am I to do— 
I work.” 

Neal took him into the house. 

“Mrs. Krider,” Neal patted the boy’s shoulder, 
“this is Jose. He is going to be my house boy 
and run errands for me. Find a small room for 
him near mine.” 

Mrs. Krider merely lifted her reddish eyebrows 


INSIDE NEWS 


133 


and gave her elbows a significant jerk. Her look 
and gestures always implied that whatever Neal did, 
he was a fool for doing it—but she obeyed. 

“So?” she assented. Then giving her head a 
jerk toward the entrance to the hall: “There’s two 
men in there to see you.” 

Neal, expecting it was Espinosa and Williams 
returned, braced himself for a clash and went in. 
But it was not. One of the men he recognized as 
Abogado Sanchez, the other he learned directly was 
an officer. 

Neal took a chair and called a servant to offer 
the usual hospitalities. 

The abogado began in a very polite, remote way to 
hedge around the business in hand. He had lifted 
his glass as Mrs. Krider who had to cross the 
end of the hall to get to the stairway, passed the 
boy. Sanchez almost dropped the glass. 

“Who is the muchacho?” he asked with attempted 
unconcern. 

“Jose Marquard,” replied Neal. “He is my house 
boy.” 

“I see!” There was a significant inflection in 
the abogado’s tone. Then in his roundabout way he 
told Neal that the officer had come to collect the 
money due on the mortgage. 

Neal knew this was the legal formality for start¬ 
ing action to foreclose. He began to say he had 


134 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


no money and could not pay it, but checked himself. 
Instead he replied in a very businesslike tone: 

“The mortgage will have to be proved legal before 
I pay it. I have evidence that it is fraudulent.” 

The threat went home. The abogado was upset, 
but began at once to protest vehemently that of all 
the mortgages ever recorded this was the best and 
most just and most absolutely correct. 

Neal made no comment. So Sanchez repeated 
at great length what he had said before. 

“Is that all, gentlemen?” Neal rose. 

“What is the Senor Ashton to do about the 
payment of the mortgage?” Sanchez demanded, 
rising also. 

“The Senor Sanchez will have plenty of time 
to write a receipt before the Senor Ashton pays.” 

The abogado and officer took their departure. 
Sanchez was sure of his ground, but the inter¬ 
view had upset his calculations. This man who had 
come to him as Senor Smith and trapped him into 
giving away information, and who had ridden 
Senor Williams and Senor Espinosa off the ranch, 
and now seemed so confident and self-assured, was 
disturbing. Could it be that he had some legal loop¬ 
hole, was he backed by some powerful influence ? 1 
He might fight it longer than they expected. He 
might—no, Sanchez would not admit he might win, 
but he could not help thinking of what a bad thing 
it would be for the abogado if he did. 


INSIDE NEWS 


135 


“Ah, well,” he shrugged, “the law did not always 
need to take its course.” The son of Jose Marquard 
his house boy! Marquard, whose father and brother 
Carranza had ordered slain and put on public ex¬ 
hibition. And now Jose himself had turned revolu¬ 
tionist. Undoubtedly this foolish American was 
playing with fire. 

Neal had returned to the field. He was talking 
with the foreman of the cane cutting, when he saw 
his newly appointed house boy running from the 
house toward him. 

“Senor,” Jose was panting in his haste, “Senor 
Valdez wishes to see Senor Ashton.” 

“Well, what in the devil next!” Neal thought 
as he followed the boy back across the field. “I 
wonder if I have violated the code in calling on 
the senorita in his absence. A duel perhaps. That 
would be the end of a perfect day!” 

But there was no indication of a duel in Senor 
Valdez's eyes as he arose and took Neal’s proffered 
hand. Instead, both the smile and the handclasp 
were distinctly friendly. 

They sat and chatted for half an hour. Neal 
felt again the charm of the man—the keen subtle 
understanding, a rare courtesy, and back of it all 
a fine, but tempered, kindliness. He had the quick 
responsiveness of his race, but not the excitable tones 
and extravagant gestures of many Mexicans. 

Neal accepted his presence as purely a social call. 


136 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


He had learned more by instinct than experience, 
that here a visitor did not state his business—nor 
the host demand to know it—the moment he was 
across the threshold. Everything was assumed to 
be friendship and pleasant social intercourse, until 
necessity forced one to reluctantly state that he 
came to purchase a bull or sell a cane mill, if the 
senor would be so gracious as to consider such a 
‘proposal. It was not, Neal reflected, a swift way 
to transact business, but it was a pleasant way to 
live. 

Once or twice Senor Valdez lapsed into a mo¬ 
mentary silence, and there was a gravity in his 
face and dark eyes as he reflectively touched his 
pointed beard with the tips of his fingers. Neal 
was sure he had come to say something and won¬ 
dered what it was. He could only wait, but he 
thought to bring things to a head by suggesting 
they go up to the veranda along the second story, 
as it would be cooler. But Senor Valdez merely 
accepted the suggestion graciously, as he would 
have any other suggestion of his host, and they 
went up and sat in wicker chairs on the long, wide 
veranda which overlooked the road and the little 
river. The strip of jungle along the stream was 
not more than a hundred and fifty yards from the 
house, in easy range, it occurred to Neal, of a 
fairly good marksman. 

The same thought or some other of significance 


INSIDE NEWS 


137 


came to Valdez. He slightly turned his head, and 
Neal became aware that he was looking at him 
very closely, perhaps doubtingly. 

But if there had been doubt in the senor’s mind 
it seemed to pass in a moment, but his eyes ap¬ 
peared to be watching the thicket down by the 
river most keenly. There was a look in the alert, 
finely cut face, that told Neal this man with all his 
urbanity would be a deadly fighter. And, somehow, 
he believed he sensed danger. In a moment the 
Mexican said with a touch of apology in his tone: 

“Does not the senor think it might be well for 
us to sit inside the room?” 

They went inside and sat out of range of the 
open door. 

“These are troublous times for poor Mexico.” 
Senor Valdez shook his head sadly. “And I fear 
they will become more so. 

“Senor Carranza has offended America and most 
all foreign countries. He is a very obstinate man 
and very unpopular. His own people do not like 
him. He has been cruel and stupid in suppressing 
disturbances.” 

Neal was astonished at the frankness of the 
statement, especially at this time, when it was felt 
dangerous to even mention politics. 

“I am loyal to the government,” went on the 
senor, “because we have had too much trouble 
already. Peace is worth more than politics. I 


138 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


have tried to be a friend of Carranza, but,” he 
shook his head, “it is very hard. If one but attempt 
to suggest a policy to the presidente, he loses his- 
friendship. 

“Trouble is coming,” Valdez’s face was very, very 
grave, his fine dark eyes were sorrowful. “And I 
fear it will be very bad; I shall take no part in it.” 

“Of course I shall not,” said Neal. “Not being 
a citizen of your country. I would not meddle in its 
political affairs even if I knew enough about them 
to have a fair opinion.” 

Senor Valdez’s eyes met Neal’s, and smiled warmly, 
humorously. 

“I wish America would send us many citizens 
like you.” 

“You mean there are others that might be spared?” 

Senor Valdez smiled but shook his head noncom¬ 
mittally. 

“I know there are,” Neal nodded emphatically. 
“There is one at least at Mexico City that ought 
to be sent to no man’s land.” 

The senor laughed understanding^. 

“I have not of fondness very much for Senor 
Williams.” 

Neal had already told him of his experience with 
Espinosa and Williams. 

“When I was in Mexico City a few days ago,” 
Senor Valdez’s mind reverted to political matters, 


INSIDE NEWS 


139 


“I heard the government is nearly bankrupt, and will 
very soon issue paper money.” 

“What will that mean?” asked Neal. 

“The paper money it will not be worth 
much.” The senor shook his head. “That will be 
very bad for some but very good for others.” He 
arose. “The sun will be down directly—I must 
ride.” 

They went down the stairs and Neal walked out 
with him to where the jefe of the guard sat on one 
horse, holding the reins of another. 

“The hospitality of the Ranch of the Thorn,” 
Senor Valdez shook „ hands with Neal, “has been 
most happy.” 

As the senor turned his back to mount his horse 
the jefe of the guard looked at Neal from under his 
wide hat, and winked. 

“The senor found the hand I sent him satisfac¬ 
tory?” 

“Very satisfactory,” Neal grinned in return. “If 
I should need more hands-” 

The jefe shrugged and turned his head sidewise 
like a wise old bird studying the weather. 

“They shall be sent—if they can be spared. 

But-” There was a dubious shake of the big 

head. 

Neal went back up to his room. It was near 
dinner time. He stood for a few minutes in the 
door watching the two men ride away. 




140 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

“Now why did he come?” he asked himself. Un¬ 
doubtedly this visit had some significance. “If it 
were in Buckeye Bridge,” reflected Neal, “I would 
know. But Senor Valdez,” he shook his head, “he 
is a mystery. Splendid fellow though. No wonder 
Senorita Maria-” He brought himself up sharply. 

“I believe he likes me.” Neal’s mind was still 
on his visitor as he went down to supper. “If so, 
then he came to help me in some way. How? In¬ 
formation, warning, advice?” Valdez had offered no 
advice; but he had implied a warning, a most subtle 
but definite warning of trouble coming. Was it a 
hint to Neal to keep out of Mexican affairs? Per¬ 
haps that was it. But what else had he said? Oh, 
yes, that Carranza was going to issue paper money. 
That was positive and apparently inside news. 

But how could that be of special significance? It 
meant nothing to Neal what sort of money Mexico 
used. And yet, now that he recalled the way Senor 
Valdez had said it, he believed that was what he 
had come to tell him. 



CHAPTER XVIII 


A FRIENDLY WARNING 

IT was three o’clock when Bernard Williams got 
to bed, but he slept late. When he awoke his 
anger had cooled down enough for him to appreciate 
the advice of his lawyer. As much as he might 
like to go back to the ranch and shoot up Neal 
Ashton, that way led to trouble. Once before when 
a pseudo purchaser of the ranch had died from 
an accidental gunshot wound—the accidental gun be¬ 
ing in the hands of one of Espinosa’s men—there had 
been quite a stir. Even the American consul held 
an inquiry, and for a time it looked as though 
Williams was going to be pretty badly implicated. 
It had been expensive getting out of it. And while 
Williams liked revenge now and then mostly he 
liked money. 

Yes, it would be decidedly better to let the law 
take its course, if it was not too slow, than to risk 
a lot of undesirable publicity at a time when the 
biggest project of his life swung in the balance. 
While some Americans might be killed in Mexico 
without creating a ripple back home, once in a while 
the papers took up a death in a way that made a 
devil of a row. 


142 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Espinosa was on the hotel veranda, puffing smoke 
like a volcano when Williams came out. Sleep had 
not tempered the big Mexican’s hate; he lowered 
more bloodthirsty than ever. 

“Moses,” Williams sat down and yawned, “I 
guess old Sanchez has the right dope. He is slow 
as molasses but right as rain. We’ll have to let him 
get Ashton out by law.” 

Espinosa made no other reply than a contemptuous 
shrug for the opinion of lawyers. 

“Of course, it is a bad time,” Williams reflected 
glumly. “He’ll probably waste the cane crop. But 
on the other hand he’ll have to meet the pay roll. 
There is one thing we must watch closely—that he 
does not try to get away with the stock. 

“Here is what we will do. We’ll just lay low 
and pretend we are whipped—until we are all 
ready to close him out. In that way he’ll think 
he owns the ranch, and will take care of it, and 
not try to steal any of the stuff.” 

Espinosa again shrugged but did not argue the 
matter. What was the use. He had his own secret 
plans already laid. 

“I’ll take you back with me to Mexico City.” 
Williams guessed that it would not be safe to 
leave Espinosa in reach of Neal Ashton. “I’ve got 
a lot for you to do up there.” 

“No, no!” The big Mexican turned a red, 


A FRIENDLY WARNING 


143 


troubled face to the man who had dominated him 
for years. “No, I do not wish to go to Mexico 
City.” 

“My dear Moses, why not? Mexico City is your 
Jerusalem.” 

Espinosa rubbed the ashes off his cigarette on 
the veranda rail and looked down into the plaza. 
On a bench sat two shabbily dressed Mexicans, one 
of them with his arm in a sling. Espinosa recog¬ 
nized them and knew they were waiting for him. 
A look of cunning came into his eyes, and he turned 
a smirking face to Williams. 

“If the senor will be so kind I do not wish to 
go to Mexico City for a few days—there are-” 

“Reasons,” finished Williams, grinning, “and they 
are ladies. Who is it that has you hooked this 
time? That Valdez bambino?” 

“Si, si” Espinosa assented. “It is the Senorita 
Maria who has my heart, and I would die if I did 
not see her again soon.” 

“I am inclined to think,” said Williams dryly, 
“that you’ll die if you do. But it is your own 
funeral.” 

“Gracias, senor.” Espinosa said it feelingly. “I 
will go see the senorita and then I will come to 
Mexico City very soon.” 

“All right.” Williams leaned toward him and 
fixed him with his small eyes, and the end of his 



144 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


nose swelled threateningly. “But see here, you slip¬ 
pery Mex, hands off of Ashton until I say the word. 
Understand ?” 

“Most ciertamente!” agreed Espinosa piously. “ It 
shall be as the senor wishes.” 

Espinosa went down and walked across the plaza, 
and passing the cathedral turned off on a side street. 
Scarcely had he disappeared around the corner when 
two shabbily dressed Mexicans, one with his arm 
in a sling, got up and slouched off in the same 
direction. 

Five minutes later they joined Espinosa at a 
board table in the back of a dirty pulqueria. 

The big Mexican glared at them as they sat down. 

“Well?” 

Guizman, of the broken arm, shook his head. 

“He is a devil! He see out of the back of his 
head!” 

“We slip on him,” the other leaned toward Es¬ 
pinosa and spoke rapidly; “we so near we could 
almost touch him—we make no sound, not so much 
as the footfall of a fly on the table there. Without 
moving he shoot straight behind him and hit Pedro 
in the arm.” 

“And then you run,” sneered Espinosa, bitterly 
disappointed. He had expected to learn that Ashton 
was already out of the way. 

“I tell you he is a devil,” whimpered Guizman. 
“The Evil One protects him. Only last week Kessig 


A FRIENDLY WARNING 


145 


hide in the cane to shoot him as he go by. The gun 
it would not go off.” 

Espinosa drank a large mug of the sickish 
pulque, set down the mug, and wiped his mouth on 
his sleeve. 

“Have you seen Marquard?” he asked. 

“Si” they nodded. “We saw him early this morn¬ 
ing. He is hiding in the hills. He has nearly 
a hundred men.” 

“Perhaps,” commented Espinosa, “among them are 
men who are not cowards, who are not afraid the 
American son of peeg is protected by the Evil 
One. Go to the camp of the revolutionist and tell 
Marquard that you have run away from the Ranch 
of the Thorn because Senor Ashton is going to 
make his men fight for Carranza.” 

“Si, si,” they assented readily. Anything but to 
go back to the ranch and try again to assassinate 
the man who shot out of his back. “Muy bueno, 
that will fex Senor Ashton. Senor Marquard, he is 
like the adder—when he strike, he strike quickly 
and hard.” 

Espinosa saw his men off toward the mountains 
to join the gathering band of revolutionists, then 
he hired a horse and rode southwest toward the 
ranch of Senor Valdez. 

Holding the reins in the left hand, the fingers 
of his right clinched as he spoke aloud: 

“Ah, ha, if I find the presumptuous peeg at 


146 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

Senor Valdez’s again Senor Marquard will not need 
to strike!” 

There is a popular illusion that a man in love 
is forgiving and generous, fairly overflowing with 
good will. This is an utter fallacy. Love and hate 
are as closely interlocked as lead and silver in native 
quartz. A man seldom loves a woman without at 
the same time hating another man, or even a 
woman. And if he is madly in love he is madly 
fierce, domineering and unforgiving. This is par¬ 
ticularly true of all those who have a drop of Latin 
blood in them. 

Espinosa was in love. He wanted Senorita Maria 
more than any woman alive. Yet there was a cross 
current in Espinosa which made him want money 
and advancement more even than he wanted this 
lovely girl. Between his love for her and human 
life there would be no hesitancy. He would freely 
kill a dozen men to get her. But between her and 
fifty thousand pesos he would think it over. 

It was because of pesos received and pesos hoped 
for that he had been loyal to Bernard Williams. 
And for the same reason he would not follow 
Williams’ orders as far as self-interest seemed to 
dictate. 

On the ride to the Ranch of the Star he divided 
his time between spitting curses upon Neal Ashton, 
and in improvising winning speeches and effective 
struts with which to impress Senorita Valdez. 


A FRIENDLY WARNING 


147 


The jefe of the guard happened to be lounging 
outside the gate when Espinosa arrived. The jefe 
had seen him coming and had posted himself in this 
nonchalant attitude, his back against the wall, the 
wide hat pushed back on his head, his broad girth 
displaying two revolvers and two belts bristling 
with ammunition. 

“Buenos dias, senor,” Espinosa threw a condescend¬ 
ing greeting. 

“Buenos dias/ f grunted the jefe puffing slowly, 
without stirring from his leaning posture. 

“Where is the bonita senorita this morning ?” 
Espinosa had drawn rein, waiting for the gate to be 
opened. 

“Senorita Valdez is where the blessed saints would 
wish her to be,” replied the jefe. The bold eyes in 
the full plump face did not flinch before Espinosa’s 
bespangled insolence. He hated the man. 

As the gate was not opened and the jefe did not 
stir, Espinosa spoke peremptorily. 

“Will you be so gracious as to tell the senorita 
I wish to see her?” 

“The senorita is at her prayers,” said the jefe. 

“At this time of day?” Espinosa lifted incredulous 
eyebrows. 

“The senorita is very devout,” lied the jefe. 

“For whom does she pray so often?” 

“For those she wishes to live and for those 
she wishes to die.” 


148 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“And who is it she wants so much to live?” 
Espinosa thought he knew and smirked; “and who 
is it she wants killed?” He swelled out his chest. 

“Who knows?” The jefe shrugged and reluctantly 
opened the gate himself. A visitor must be ad¬ 
mitted unless his presence was forbidden by the 
senor or the senorita. 

But Espinosa waited a long time in the court. He 
walked about impatiently, standing under the tree, or 
striking an attitude at the fountain, or strolling 
around the graveled walk. She might come at any 
moment and he must be impressive. 

“Ah, Senor Espinosa,” she came at last, and held 
out her hand in friendly greeting. “It is very 
nice of you to call.” 

He swept his hat low toward the ground, and 
bent over her hand. 

“Bonita Senorita, my heart is like a caged panther 
when I am away from you.” 

Senorita Maria gave a pleased but incredulous 
laugh. 

“Senor, a panther is a very bad beast; I would 
be afraid of so wicked a heart.” 

“No, no, senorita, I do not mean my heart is 
a panther; for you it is like a dove.” 

“Oh, I see.” She said solemnly. “You have a 
whole menagerie in your side. Do not so many 
birds and animals make your side to hurt?” 


A FRIENDLY WARNING 


149 

Espinosa felt angered, but hid it as best he could. 
He did not like to be laughed at. 

She invited him to sit down, and she took the 
other end of the bench. Tia Alicia was in the patio 
with her eternal crocheting. 

“I came to speak to you again, senorita,” he said 
pompously, “of a very important matter.” 

“It is of yourself then you wish to speak?” 
Senorita Maria looked at him from the corner of 
her eyes. 

“It is.” He missed the irony. “And of another 
also.” He frowned prodigiously and shook his 
head in ominous concern. 

“Senorita, I wish to warn you again of the 
Americano, Senor Ashton. I am, as you know, a 
most good friend of the presidente. I have secret 
agents watching those who would start a revolution. 
These agents, who are most trusted, and most true 
good friends of the presidente, bring me word last 
night that the Senor Ashton had met in the coffee 
fields of the Ranch of the Thorn the leader of 
the most bloody bandits and revolutionists that have 
ever torn our poor country. You know who I 
mean ?” 

“Is it—Senor Marquard?” she asked with a clutch 
in her breath. 

Espinosa nodded. “He is the one. This Ashton 
met him in the coffee fields and plotted with him to 


150 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

overthrow the government and to kill and plunder 
all the friends of the presidente. The Americans 
to furnish money, much money. And he is to 
come to this heavenly hacienda of my good friend 
Senor Valdez to learn when and how it may be 
most safely attacked by the cursed bandits.” 

Senorita Maria's face was very white. Her hands 
were clinched into small balls of fury. Her eyes 
were like black flames. 

“The devil, the accursed devil,” she said fiercely. 

“Senorita,” Espinosa arose and bowed with his 
hand on his heart, “my sword is yours. I will fight 
and die for you, beautiful one. You are the flower 
of my heart.” 

“Ah!”—the whiteness left the face, roguery came 
back into her eyes—“what would the panther in your 
heart do with a flower also?” 

Espinosa stiffened. He assumed his most impres¬ 
sive strut. 

“The senorita makes jest of my poor services— 
I will bid her good-by.” 

“No, no,” penitence came into the lovely eyes. 
“I do not mean to hurt senor, who has been so 
very kind as to bring me warning. I thank you, 
senor, and if I should need your protection I will 
send for you.” 

Espinosa turned on her a burning look of adora¬ 
tion, a look of ardent desire. It was all he could do. 


A FRIENDLY WARNING 151 

“If the senorita wishes me to remove the 
Americano-” 

“No,” the word escaped in a fierce breath. “No, 
the senor must leave that to my father.” 

“Very well, senorita.” And Espinosa bowed him¬ 
self out and rode away with a feeling that he had 
not been properly appreciated. 



CHAPTER XIX 


NEAL P ROGRESSES 

T HE slow, steady stream of oxcarts poured 
the cane into the mill, the juice ran into the 
vats, was boiled, crystallized, and the suger loaded 
into sacks. The Mexicans with hoes kept the coffee 
field clean, and the trees were full of the little green 
berries, some of them now almost as large as a 
cherry. The cattle were undisturbed on the ranges 
and the horses were safe in the pasture. Nothing 
could have been more dreamily peaceful. 

Neal had expected trouble after the deportation of 
Espinosa and Williams, and had been surprised when 
it did not come. Except for the two Mexicans who 
had tried to assassinate him that night everybody 
had been very friendly and very kind. He had 
established the identity of the two assassins the next 
morning, but as they had disappeared he dismissed 
the matter. 

Neal’s biggest surprise was that he could make 
sugar right on the ranch and sell it at once for a 
very good price. Thus not only could he meet his 
pay roll, but would be able to lay some money by 
from the cane crop. 

Friday afternoon Neal came in from the field 


NEAL PROGRESSES 


153 


early and went into the little room just off the 
hall which he had fitted up as an office. After 
figuring for a few minutes he sent for Mrs. Krider. 

The red-headed widow came in with the look of 
resentment which she always wore when interrupted 
at her work. She kept up her antagonism and 
her scornful contempt of Neal’s folly. They had 
not exchanged a dozen words more than necessary 
for carrying on the house. Mrs. Krider ran the 
place as suited her and asked for no instructions. 
As she did it amazingly well, Neal offered no sug¬ 
gestions, merely inquiring from time to time what 
supplies or funds were wanted. He did not even 
ask for an accounting. 

“I paid the field hands yesterday,’’ Neal said. “I 
would like for you to pay the women and the house 
servants. How much do you require?” 

“Two hundred and twelve pesos,” she answered 
without a moment’s hesitancy. 

“Is that all?” He was surprised at the smallness 
of it. There must have been at least twenty or more 
women and girls working about the hacienda. 

Mrs. Krider put up her right hand and jabbed 
a hairpin a little deeper into the knotted red hair. 

“If it hadn’t have been, I’d have said so,” she 
replied sharply. 

“All right.” Neal smiled in spite of his attempt 
to keep up a dignified antagonism. He evened up 
ten stacks of silver of twenty dollars each, and 


154 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


counted out twelve dollars more. ‘There you are. 
Now how much do you draw?” 

“Sixty pesos,” she said crisply. 

He put out five more stacks of silver. 

“We’ll make it a hundred,” he said lightly. 

“Like hell we will!” She flared angrily, and 
shoved two of the stacks back. “When my wages 
are to be raised, I’ll raise ’em.” 

Neal whistled and grinned. He was feeling good 
to-day. A man usually does when he is easy with 
his pay roll. 

“You are a queer one. I did not know a woman 
ever turned down money.” 

“Well, they do, turn down both money and men 
sometimes. One is as worthless as the other. Only 
you can get rid of the money lots easier.” 

She scooped the silver into her apron, turned a 
belligerent back on Ashton and started for the door, 
but stopped and looked back over her shoulder. For 
a moment a grin twisted the corner of her mouth. 

“Better send the extra forty up to Buckeye Bridge 
to have that church spire straightened. You are 
going to need to go back mighty shortly.” 

Neal was grinning as he mounted a horse and rode 
off to the west, twenty minutes later. 

“And I learned about women from her,” he 
chanted. He was thinking of Mrs. Krider. 

It was queer that they, the only two Americans 
on the ranch, should have the least conversation 


NEAL PROGRESSES 


155 


with each other. But it often happens so. One 
would imagine that meeting a fellow countryman in 
a strange land would be a great joy—instead it is 
often an unmitigated blight. The same sort of thing 
is true in our own country. The sparser the settle¬ 
ment the deadlier the quarrels. Mrs. Krider puzzled 
Neal. He could not figure her out, but he had no 
ill feelings toward her. Instead she rather amused 
him and he certainly appreciated her management 
of the hacienda. Whether she had been infatuated 
with Espinosa, or whether she liked the climate and 
the country so well she did not want to go back, 
he was unable to guess. 

It was toward sundown when Neal neared the 
Ranch of the Star. He drew rein and sat looking 
at the glimpse of high ivory walls amidst the rank 
tropical greens. Toward the sunset rose the serried 
ranks of mountains, with last of all Orizaba's snowy 
crest cutting clean into the purple sky. In the lower 
lands to the east lay the shadowy richness of tropic 
and orchards—lost in a wilderness that seemed 
scarcely touched. 

All the way Neal had been torn by fierce passions 
and doubts and torments that he never dreamed was 
a part of human experiences. This feeling for the 
lovely Senorita Maria, who had scorned him, was 
so much deeper and more tempestuous than any emo¬ 
tion of his life that it seemed to belong to some 
one jslse. Now as he neared the gate of her garden 


156 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

that feeling was accentuated. It was all unreal, 
fantastic, impossible. And yet it was romance. It 
was his. No one, no American with a mortgage, 
no Mexican with a gun, no rival of the blood could 
take it away from him. He would see her, tell 
her of his love so fiercely she would have to love 
him in return. 

Nevertheless he was trembling as with an ague 
as he dismounted and rang the bell. 

Through the bars of the gate he saw a movement 
among the rank ferns in the garden, a mere glimpse 
of the blown end of a silk scarf, and his heart stopped 
beating. 

Almost immediately a servant opened the gate, 
and as it clanked shut behind him Senorita Maria 
stepped into the graveled path but a few feet ahead. 

She was dressed in white save for the rose-red 
mantoon thrown about her shoulders. Her hair was 
piled about her head, and her large, dark eyes met 
Neal's squarely, inquiringly. 

He stood in the path unable to speak, his face 
pale and his hands trembling so he clinched them 
shut. Now that he was in her presence he seemed 
entirely powerless to pour out the torrent of fierce 
love that had been dammed up in him these weeks. 

She was so utterly lovely standing there in the 
early glow of coming twilight, so fine and almost 
fragile, in spite of that latent fierceness of passion 
and strength, that his emotions were transformed. 


NEAL PROGRESSES 


157 


He did not want to seize her and crush her and 
demand her love. He wanted to woo her with 
moonlight and song and the rhythmic beat of the 
hearts of poets. He wanted to kiss her fingers, and 
touch her hair and look into her eyes and cling 
to her hands. 

She was the first to break the silence. 

“Et has been ver’ long since the senor honored 
our lonely hacienda.” She spoke in quaint English, 
coming toward him with outstretched hands. 

Neal laughed—it was that or cry, so great was 
his relief at her friendliness. He held her hands 
close. 

“Senorita, every night when I have seen the 
star my heart ached because I was not here.” 

“Ah!” She gave her dark head a delicious little 
toss. “The senor has not forgotten how to flatter.” 

“It is not flattery,” he said seriously. “Flattery, 
senorita, is merely saying words to make feelings 
in another. With me the feelings make the words.” 

She smiled, and her dark eyes were of the most 
limpid softness. 

“The senor is a philosopher, too. He know just 
why hes heart go pet-a-pat, or chug, chug, or dub, 
dub!” Her laughter seemed to make crinkles of 
merriment in the air about them. 

He joined in her drollery, and she turned toward 
the house he walked close beside her. 

The wind lifted the end of the rose-red mantoon 


158 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

and it touched his cheek. She noticed it, and catch¬ 
ing the end of the scarf in her hand drew it back 
and struck it with her fingers. 

“Naughty!” she said, shaking her head reprovingly 
at the fringe of the mantoon. “You must not be 
deceived by a senor’s flattery. The senors come and 
say pretty speeches,” she continued drolly to the 
offending mantoon, “and then they ride away and 
leave you only the wind to play with. And the 
wind,” there was an aching chord in the fooling tone, 
“come from so far away, and is so lonely, and is 
so full of sorrow, et steals your soul away, and 
leave your poor leetle heart cold.” 

“Senorita!” He stopped before the path turned 
into the arched entrance of the great house. But 
he could not go on. He was too stirred for articulate 
speech. 

“Perhaps,” she tilted her head and looked at him 
roguishly from slanting eyes, “the senor wishes to 
explain his long absence.” 

“Why, I thought you didn’t want me!” He was 
surprised. “You ordered me to leave.” 

“But how,” she said lightly, “is a senor to know 
unless he comes again to see.?” 

“Sure enough,” he laughed. “But I thought you 
were angry at me.” 

“Ah, so I was.” 

“And that you hated me.” 


NEAL PROGRESSES 


159 

“Most fiercely, senor!” She said it in an awful 
tone. 

“Why?” he asked anxiously. 

She lifted her face toward the west; the red glow 
glinted her hair and touched her cheeks and lips 
with a bit of fire. Her eyes looked pensively, puz- 
zlingly at the sky. 

“Who knows, senor? Can one tell why a hawk 
flies yonder instead of a nightingale? Or by and 
by that it is the nightingale instead of the hawk?” 

Then bringing her face about she gave that tan¬ 
talizing flirt of the head. 

“Watch out, senor—the hawk fly again some time.” 

She started in. 

“Wait,” he urged. 

“No, no,” she frowned. “We must go in—my 
father and Aunt Alicia will feel most scandalous in 
their proprieties for me to be in garden alone with a 
senor who is so great a philosopher that always 
he wants to know why everything.” 

Neal and Senor Valdez visited and smoked in the 
patio until dark. Then Tia Alicia came out and 
asked them to come in. 

The visitor was to take food with them. The 
Mexicans usually do not eat a heavy meal at night. 
Rolls and some fruit, a cup of tea or coffee. But 
it was the happiest meal Neal ever partook. The 
table was handsomely set with heavy linen and old 
silver; silver candlesticks in the center. Neal sat at 


160 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

Valdez’s right and Senorita Maria at his left. His 
eyes could be upon her most of the time. 

The family seemed in good spirits, and there was 
much droll fooling in which even the dignified Valdez 
took part. 

At half past nine Neal insisted he must return. 
Senor Valdez again called the jefe of the guard 
to accompany him. 

“Senor,” Valdez said in parting, “the government 
will begin issuing paper money to-morrow.” 

“Is that so?” Neal accepted it as a bit of news 
without any special significance. In fact he was so 
anxiously watching and hoping for Senorita Maria to 
reappear before he left that he scarcely thought of 
it at all. 

She did just for a moment. He had started 
reluctantly out through the great hall with the jefe, 
when a vision of loveliness suddenly appeared at the 
foot of a stairway, a candle in her hand. 

“Buenas noches, senor,” she bowed. “Remem¬ 
ber the hawk follows the nightingale-” 

Neal and the jefe rode along in silence. Neal 
was too rapturous to talk. The glittering stars, 
the soft wind, the fragrance of the tropic night all 
seemed a part of his mood. 

There were no words for his love for Senorita 
Maria. It took this vast stretch of mountains and 
jungle and starlight and wind, filled with sweetness 
and fierceness, of peace and turbulence, of mystery 



NEAL PROGRESSES 161 

and danger to contain his love for her—and she 
had been kind! 

Below them lay the Ranch of the Thorn sleep¬ 
ing in the dark save for two lights that shone dimly 
in windows of the hacienda. The strip of jungle 
showed darkly along the river; the coffee fields were 
a splotch of darkness beside the open sugar lands, 
rich and full of color and romance and promise 
of great wealth. 

His ranch! He might after all beat them and 
keep it. He felt to-night as though he could fight 
all the sinister forces that were loose in this land 
of uncertainty and win! If he did—then Senorita 
Maria- 

“Senor,” the jefe drew rein, “Senor Williams and 
Senor Espinosa were in Cordoba to-day. I had gone 
to the estacion to meet Senora Alicia and I saw 
them at the Gran Hotel Zeballos. They plot some¬ 
thing very bad for the Senor Ashton.” 


CHAPTER XX 


VAVm MONEY 


KRNARI) WILLIAMS, Espinosa, and Ahogado 



Sanchez were holding a night session in the 
lawyer’s office. Williams had come down from 
Mexico City in response to an urgent wire from the 
ahogado. 

"Scfiors," Sanchez rubbed his palms together and 
wiggled his scalp of black hair in an excess of satis¬ 
faction, “I have work ver’ hard to get the sefior’s 
ranch qucck -and now 1 have it:." 

"You mean you’ve got possession of it?" Williams 
leaned forward so excitedly his chest lunged against 
the table. 

"No, no I" Sanchez held up a delaying hand. "Not 
yet of a ciertamcnU , but ver’ soon almost: at once." 

"Oh, belli" Williams leaned back disgustedly. 
"Something is always just about to happen with you 
damned procrastinators. It: is always maflana, 
maflana, Why don't something once in a while 
happen to-day?" 

"But the seflor does not understand." 

The ahogado protested, distressed at the reception 
of his good news. "The law cannot foreclose in 


PAPER MONEY 163 

a few moment# like the #ef/or wishes, It take# time 
—ah, a ver' great deal of time usually, 

"But 1"—-he shrugged appreciatively- "/ have ver" 
/'real influence, I hurry it. Now, if the sefior will 
only wait, I will explain/' 

William# sullenly lighted a cigarette and blew 
a whiff of #moke through hi# bulhou# nose. Thing# 
with him had been edging cloivr and closer to the 
precipice. 

"Well, #hoot," he #aid in a bad humor. 
"Ordinarily, a# I told the sefior," Sanchez, began, 
"it would take one year to foreclose the mortgage. 
Be#!de#, thi# Sefior Ashton will try to prove the 
mortgage i# not of an honesty, '1 hat might take 
longer. But the president# has appoint a new 
judge, one of hi# particular friends who come here 
thi# week. ‘Ah, ha!' J #ay. ‘Now we will get 
action for Sefior Williams/ I go to thi# judge 
ver" privately and say: ‘There is an Americano on 
the Ranch of the Thorn who is ver' troublesome 
man. lie i# a friend of Jose Maojuard the revolu¬ 
tionist—J ohn’s eon he keep at the hacienda, while 
)o *6 make war or/ Carranza'# government. Thi# 
Americano/ i #ay, ‘hold the ranch illegally, ft of a 
right belong# to Sefior Williams and Sefior Espinosa 
Both ver’ good friends of the president/:. They have 
a mortgage that is past due. But this had Americano, 
Ashton, will not give up until all courts are tried out. 
Now/ 1 say, ‘how can we get rid of this Ashton ver 


164 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


queek?’ The judge he ask many questions about the 
mortgage and I tell him. He ask if the mortgage 
covers the stock and the tools and the provisions 
on the ranch. I tell hem it does. 'Ah/ he says, 
nodding wisely, 'there we have it. Get Senor Wil¬ 
liams and Senor Espinosa to swear that the stock 
and tools and provisions are being wasted or stolen 
—that they are not cared for—that Senor Ashton is 
selling provisions dishonestly. Then I will issue 
order and the officers will go out and bring in all 
the stock and all the tools and all the provisions, 
to keep under the court’s direction until the suit 
is settled/ 'Caramba!’ I said. 'That is wonderful. 
We have hem, for all the people will leave. He 
cannot farm. He cannot pay. And when they all 
leave, he leave also. He cannot stay alone/ ” 

Williams had ceased puffing his cigarette—and 
his adder nose swelled. 

"Good work, old torts,” he exclaimed approvingly. 
"That really is some stunt you’ve thought up. Once 
the gang of field hands down there is scattered, 
we can get Senor Ashton out of the way as easy as 
killing a fly. When can all this be done?” 

"We will make out the papers in all haste—to¬ 
morrow,” said Sanchez. "And the officers will go 
the next day and take away everything on the ranch.” 

“Bueno,” broke in Espinosa, "and I will be one 
of the officers.” 

"Go to it,” said Williams. "I’ll sit tight here at 


PAPER MONEY 165 

Cordoba and see that the court does not eat up the 
supplies.” 

The three adjourned until ten the next morning 
when they were to meet in the courtroom at eleven 
o’clock. 

At half past eight next morning Espinosa rapped 
on Williams’ door. 

“Well?” Williams’ voice always demanded an 
apology of any one disturbing him. 

Espinosa stepped inside, a look of news on his 
face. 

“The Americano son of a peeg is here,” he an¬ 
nounced. “He is out on the veranda now—smoking.” 

“Fine.” Williams’ nose swelled with gratification. 
“He’s got wind of what is up and has come in to 
beg for terms. But not one centavo, not one 
damned centavo will I pay him.” 

“You do not think,” the big Mexican showed 
a trace of uneasiness in his large, black eyes, “that 
he might do something?” 

“Not a thing. He is hog tied now. We got the 
judge and the law with us—and we will go the limit.” 

The jefe’s warning the night before had brought 
Neal to earth with a jerk as though he had been 
snatched bodily out of the clouds by the feet. 

His chances for romance with Senorita Maria de¬ 
pended upon his chances of holding onto the Ranch 
of the Thorn. And that he suddenly realized was 
about one in a million. 


i66 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


That the wily villains and the bloodthirsty Es¬ 
pinosa had given up the fight was of course pre¬ 
posterous. He had been subconsciously expecting 
some open or secret attack every day. But what 
was it they were plotting at Cordoba? It must be 
something connected with law and courts. 

He slept little, and that uneasily. At about three 
o'clock in the morning the significance of what 
Senor Valdez had been telling him brought him 
up with a jump. He dressed hurriedly and routed 
out Blanco. It was a weird hour, but there was a 
late moon, and they saddled two horses and rode 
to Cordoba in time for breakfast. 

He learned from the clerk that Williams and 
Espinosa were still at the hotel. For an hour after 
breakfast he sat on the upstairs veranda smoking 
and watching while Blanco went out on the streets 
to hear what he might hear. 

At nine-thirty Neal saw Abogado Sanchez enter 
the courthouse. He was sure now Williams and 
Espinosa were planning some action in the court. 
He waited a half hour, went down and crossed the 
plaza to the courthouse, stopping at a bank on 
the way where he kept his account. 

He entered the courtroom and sat down on a 
bench beside an old Indian with a striped serape 
over his shoulders, his black hair matted down over 
his ears, his wrinkled old face like a mask. Across 
the aisle was a Mexican woman with a baby in her 


PAPER MONEY 


167 

arms, a look of infinite sorrow on her face. In 
front of him sat a fierce young Mexican who had 
been bold in crime but now sat cringing before the 
court. 

For an hour Neal watched and listened as the 
proceedings dragged along, impeded always, as in 
the courts of all the world, by the wrangling of the 
lawyers. Except for the different faces and the 
different language, this, he thought, might be the sum¬ 
mer term of circuit court in Buckeye Bridge. There 
were the same circumlocutions and technicalities and 
evasion of the direct, common-sense issue. 

The case on trial was finished a few minutes be¬ 
fore eleven. Neal looked around the courtroom. 
Williams and Espinosa had not yet appeared. He 
wondered if he had made the wrong guess. But 
when he looked toward the door a moment later the 
big Mexican, dressed in a new and more gorgeous 
outfit recently purchased in Mexico City, entered 
with a swagger, and the American with the adder 
nose followed. Abogado Sanchez hurried forward, 
greeted them effusively and led them to a front 
seat. 

The two saw Neal. The Mexican scowled fiercely, 
but Williams grinned with relish. He always liked 
to be an eyewitness when one of his enemies was 
going to be floored. 

The abogado arose and hoped the very august 


168 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


court, and the most honorable and just and distin¬ 
guished of judges would allow a very humble and 
obedient servant of the court, namely Abogado 
Sanchez, to present an urgent petition for the relief 
of two very estimable gentlemen, namely and to 
wit: Senor Bernard Williams and Senor M. 
Espinosa. 

The court politely assented to hear the petition. 

Abogado Sanchez began to read. The petition 
was five pages, largely closely typewritten, and filled 
with enough extreme adjectives to stock an amateur 
novel. 

But Neal leaned forward, not to miss a word of 
it. Until now he had been entirely in the dark as 
to their real plot. 

After two or three pages of preamble he got the 
gist of it—saw what they were driving at. The 
petition accused him of wasting, neglecting, misusing, 
misapplying, destroying, wrongly stealing and ab¬ 
sconding with loose property on the Ranch of the 
Thorn. 

“Thereupon, we pray the court”—Neal leaned a 
little farther forward, listening intently—“to take 
into its custody and keeping all the stocks, tools, 
provisions, food, moneys and all other movable 
property and to hold same until such time as the 
mortgage may be legally foreclosed.” 

Neal’s eye left the lawyer and went to the judge, 


PAPER MONEY 169 

and he knew the judge intended to grant that peti¬ 
tion. 

The lawyer finally ran himself out of words and 
sat down. Neal glanced toward Williams and Es¬ 
pinosa. Both had turned their heads and were 
watching him. Espinosa leeringly lifted his heavy 
brows and gave the corner of his mouth a tri¬ 
umphant curl. Williams openly grinned, the end of 
his big nose puffing out as though inhaling incense. 

The judge asked a few questions and made a 
memorandum on a slip of paper. He was about 
to grant the petition when the court was surprised 
and somewhat annoyed by a slender young man aris¬ 
ing in the middle of the room. 

“Your honor,” Neal spoke in careful Spanish, “I 
am Neal Ashton against whom this action is aimed. 
May I, acting as my own attorney, be heard in de¬ 
fense?” 

“Most ciertamente ” the court nodded courteously. 

“I merely ask,” said Neal in an even but con¬ 
vincing tone, “an opportunity to prove the charges 
in the petition maliciously false.” 

“The senor,” said the judge, “will have such an 
opportunity. But as the matter is very urgent—* 
there being a charge supported by the oaths of two 
reputable citizens, of the destruction and misuse of 
property, the court will be compelled to take charge 
of said property at once and hear the arguments 


170 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


and evidence later. If the senor then proves his 
case the property will be returned to him/’ 

“But,” protested Neal, “that will cause my work¬ 
men to be scattered for lack of food and pay; it 
will damage the crops, ruin much of them. It will 
cause great loss and suffering. It will, in fact, 
compel me to abandon the ranch.” 

Williams punched Espinosa with his elbow. The 
abogado’s eyes flashed at him a signal of victory. 
The judge looked down at his desk and shrugged 
most desolately. 

“It is very unfortunate,” he said compassionately, 
“and it gives the court great sorrow to work a 
hardship on Senor Ashton. But the law must be 
followed. So long as the sehors hold a mortgage 
on the stock and ranch, most especially since it is 
past due, and they pray the court for action the 
court must act.” 

Neal hesitated a moment, opened his lips as though 
to speak, but moistened them and glanced at Espinosa 
and Williams. The American had stretched his feet 
out in front of him and crossed them, and looked 
up at Neal with a taunting twist of his loose mouth. 

“Has the court seen and read the mortgage?” 
Neal asked. 

“It is here.” The judge picked it up from the 
desk. 

“If I should make a small payment on it, all I 


PAPER MONEY 


171 

have, would the court allow the stock and tools to 
remain on the ranch until I can be heard?” 

The judge shook his head. 

‘The mortgage must be paid in full to prevent 
action.” 

“How much is it?” Neal inquired. 

The judge asked the Abogado Sanchez if he had 
figured the interest. He had. The amount was 
40,765 pesos and 21 centavos. 

Neal looked as though stunned for a moment. 

Williams and Espinosa glanced at each other and 
lifted their brows in pious rejoicing at an enemy’s 
funeral. The court stirred and the judge’s lips 
parted to render judgment. 

“Very well,” said Neal deliberately, “I’ll just pay 
it off.” 

Williams lurched forward as though his lounging 
spine had been touched by a red-hot iron. He 
gathered his legs under him with a scrambling noise, 
and got to his feet in a stagger. 

“He can’t do it! Action is already started to 
foreclose.” The last thing in the world Williams 
thought of was the payment of that mortgage. The 
ranch was easily worth twice the amount. They had 
always been most careful to sell to men who could 
not pay it out. 

Whatever faults a Mexican judge may have, no 
matter how he may twist the tail of justice with 
technicalities, when a thing is obviously the law 


172 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


he will decide against his own brother or the presi- 
dente himself. 

The judge nodded his head affirmatively. 

‘‘Yes, the senor has a right to pay the mortgage.” 

Neal had drawn a paper package from under the 
bench and advanced to the clerk’s desk. The judge 
passed over the mortgage and asked the clerk to 
figure the exact amount and add the cost of all action 
to date. 

Neal tore open the paper wrappings and began 
to count out original $1,000 packages of unopened 
currency. 

“What!” Williams was again on his feet, his 
loose jaw working, his bulbous nose swelling, his 
neck livid. “Not with that stuff, not by a damned 
sight! That paper money is worth only ten cents 
on the dollar!” 

Neal looked up from his counting and smiled 
at the judge and said confidentially: 

“The senor seems not to have read the proclama¬ 
tion of our most excellent presidente, declaring that 
paper money must be accepted as face value for all 
debts.” 

Again the judge nodded affirmatively, and there 
was possibly a glint of satisfaction in his black eyes, 
for he had liked the appearance of this American 
much better than the one with the big nose. 

“Yes, the senor has a right to pay the mortgage 


PAPER MONEY 


173 


with paper money. It must be accepted and the 
mortgage canceled.” 

“But hell fire and damnation!” raged Williams. 
“That means I am getting only $2,000 in American 
money for a ranch worth fifty thousand. I won’t ac¬ 
cept it, I’ll be damned if I do.” 

The judge shrugged, there was undoubtedly a 
gleam of malice in his dark eyes as he turned to 
Williams. 

“It is not a matter of choice with the senor. If 
he is losing, that”—another shrug—“is unfortunate. 
But the law must be observed. We will now proceed 
with the next case.” 

As Neal came out of the courtroom with the 
canceled mortgage in his pocket, Williams and Es¬ 
pinosa were waiting for him—but so also was Blanco. 
The big negro stepped forward to Neal’s side most 
obviously ready for any action that started. Also 
there were two soldiers standing, with arms, at each 
side of the door. 

Williams approached Neal menacingly, but the 
slender young chap merely looked him straight in 
the eye and smiled. 

“Do you know what I think of you?” Williams 
glared at Ashton. 

“Yes,” Neal’s smile was infuriating, “but you 
can never guess what I think of you.” 

“I think,” said Williams heavily, “that a man who 
will take advantage of a fellow countryman to palm 


174 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


off depreciated Mexican paper money in payment 
of a debt, is a damned thief.” 

Neal laughed at that. 

“The yellower a snapping cur, the louder he howls 
when bitten.” 

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Williams’ small eyes 
looked venomous, “you can’t get away with it— 
not down here.” 

With that parting threat Williams and Espinosa 
turned across the plaza toward the hotel. Neal and 
Blanco started for their horses. 

“First thing,” said Williams bitterly, “I think I’ll 
kill that lawyer.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE OWNER OF THE RANCH 

A S they rode out of town Neal chanted “On the 
*** Road to Mandalay.” 

The mangoes were ripe, the air was perfumed, 
the world swam in glory for him. He would see 
Senorita Maria to-night. 

“You shoah got that white man’s goat.” Blanco 
grinned. 

Neal laughed. 

“They did look sick, both of them, when I pro¬ 
duced that stack of paper money.” 

Blanco sobered and shook his head, the whites 
of his eyes showing. 

“I hopes youh-all is powerful quick on triggah. 
They’s shoah goin’ to try get you now.” 

Neal also sobered. Victory had its price. Some¬ 
times it has cost so much of life’s blood one has 
no spirit left for its enjoyment. Sometimes it carries 
such a bad conscience that shame spoils the zest 
of it; and again it plants danger that springs up 
like dragon’s teeth to harass the victor until he at 
times wishes he had been defeated. 

Neal had a clear conscience and victory had come 
quick and unexpected. It was even one of those 


176 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

sardonically humorous pieces of justice which Fate 
sometimes deals out, that Williams, who for years 
had kept a mortgage on his ranch so as to cheat 
others, should suddenly have to accept depreciated 
paper money worth ten cents on the dollar in pay¬ 
ment. But beaten at law they would undoubtedly 
resort to the most desperate unlawful means to get 
him. 

“Yes, Blanco,” he said soberly, as they jogged 
along beside an abandoned coffee field, “as it hap¬ 
pens I can shoot a gun. Those who go to movies 
and read wild-West literature imagine the only men 
who know which end of a gun shoots are west 
of the Rocky Mountains. But it happens my placid 
old State of Missouri has won most of the shooting 
contests. But I don’t want to handle a gun, I 
don’t want even to have to carry one.” 

“Well, what you want,” exclaimed the big negro 
strongly, “and what is, ain’t very close kin. You 
shoah got to carry a gun and have your finger 
dancin’ for that there triggah if you-all expects 
to live till watermelons are ripe.” 

As Neal rode into the hacienda he had a different 
feeling of ownership. Before, he had felt as if it 
was all a magnificent piece of bluff, temporary at the 
best. Now the ranch was his. Really his. The 
papers all recorded, the debts all paid. Rightly 
managed it would be better than a gold mine. And 
his eyes swept the buildings, the timber, the fields; it 


THE OWNER OF THE RANCH 


177 


was beautiful. It could be made a veritable dream 
of magnificence, loved as a home by the hundreds 
of these simple-hearted children who worked the 
fields, known far and wide as the best coffee ranch 
in Mexico. Thousands of miles away men riding 
horses at night, campers on the road, tired men 
returned from the day’s work, would catch the 
whiff of coffee which spoke to them of rest and 
satisfaction, and set them dreaming, as it had him, 
of far lands and gorgeous scenes. It would be his 
coffee—carrying the incense of his own romance back 
to the plodding dwellers in the lands of matter of 
fact. 

“Blanco,” Neal grinned at the big negro as they 
stopped their horses in front of the house, “I think 
you may tell the story to the hands of the way 
we got the best of Espinosa and Williams. Success 
makes authority.” 

Neal thought to himself: “And I’m going to tell 
Mrs. Krider.” 

Perhaps it was because of her prophecy of failure, 
perhaps it was because of her long and bitter op¬ 
position, or it might have been a desire to win her 
as an active ally, Neal did not figure it out, he 
merely was determined to tell her all the details of 
his victory. 

The widow came to the office looking as though 
she was being dragged into something very distaste¬ 
ful. But Neal noticed she had her hair done up 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


178 

more becomingly than usual and wore a new print 
dress with lilac blossoms on it. 

“Sit down, Mrs. Krider.” He nodded to a chair. 
She sat on the edge of it, her hands resting on her 
knees as though intending to stay only a minute. 

“I have news for you.” He could not suppress 
the satisfaction that rounded out the tone. 

“Every time I see you alive it is news.” She 
lifted her brows. 

“I really own the whole ranch now.” He reached 
for a pencil on the table. “I have paid off all the 
debts.” 

He looked down at the end of the pencil as he 
sketched the picture of a possum hanging by its 
tail while he waited for her reaction. A long-drawn, 
gasping breath was her only response. When his 
eyes lifted he saw her face was flushed deeper than 
he had ever seen it, and her eyes were looking at 
him very intently—reproachfully he thought. 

He puckered his brows and smiled slowly at her. 

“When I sell the coffee I am going to send 
money back to Buckeye Bridge to have the church 
steeple straightened, but I am not going back.” 

“No,” there seemed to be grim fatalism in her 
set jaw and sharp tone, “you are not going back.” 

“See here, Mrs. Krider.” Neal twisted in his 
chair a bit uneasy under the look of her eyes and 
tone. “I can’t make you out. I don’t know why 
you hate me, why you wanted to run me off the 


THE OWNER OF THE RANCH 


179 


ranch. I like your work. I want you to stay and 
am willing to pay you much more wages. But we 
must come to some sort of an understanding. I 
am not comfortable in the presence of antagonism. 
We must not go on fighting. What is it all about?” 

He kept his eye on her questioningly, and he 
was not sure whether she was going to cry or curse. 
But after a stirring moment, she did neither. 

“Neal Ashton, you are a fool.” 

“You have told me that before—frequently.” He 
smiled. 

“But I don’t hate you. I like you better than 
nearly any man I ever saw. I know that you have 
got the devil in you somewhere, that you are a liar 
and are yellow, and that every woman ought to hate 
you and all other men. But,” she shook her red 
head and shut her thin lips, “it hasn’t cropped out 
so far. That is what makes me mad. It is queer, 
too, that you have not been killed. I thought at 
first you was a poor, green country boob and was 
really sorry that you had lost all your money. But 
either you have more sense than you look or you 
have had the devil’s own luck.” 

“Thank you.” Neal was getting into the thoughts 
of the woman now. 

“But understand,” she said seriously, “I don’t 
trust you. I’ve been fooled and cheated and badgered 
and abused by men too often to have any faith in 
any of them. You’ll turn out rotten like all the 


180 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

rest and probably prove the damnedest yellow cur in 
Mexico. But I can’t help wishing you’d go back 
to Buckeye Bridge.” 

“Why?” His eyes still questioned her. 

“They will kill you.” Her voice dropped to a 
fatalistic monotone. “They always do. Espinosa is 

a devil. There is something about him-” She 

broke off, leaving the rest to imagination. “I hate 
him much of the time. And he is a devil always. 
He is as sure to kill you or have you killed as those 
damned parrakeets are to wake me up with their 
screaming in the morning.” 

“But suppose,” he suggested grimly, “I should 
kill him.” 

She shook her head violently. 

“It can’t be done. It has been tried too many 
times. One can’t kill the devil.” 

He studied her a moment, wondering if, after all, 
the woman was a bit mad. 

“Anyway, Mrs. Krider,” he said in a friendly 
voice, “I expect to run the Ranch of the Thorn 
so long as I live. And until they do kill me 
suppose we be friends.” He put out his hand. 

She breathed tumultuously; the lilac sprays in the 
new dress rose and fell upon her bosom; she slowly 
started to put out her hand, snatched it away violently 
and ran from the office. 

Neal went up to his room to change his clothes. 



THE OWNER OF THE RANCH 181 

He was dressing with a great deal of care when there 
was a knock at his door. 

It was Mrs. Krider. There was an appeal in her 
eyes—clear blue eyes. In spite of all her sharpness 
and harshness there was kindness in the woman’s 
heart, and Neal knew at last that he had touched it. 

‘‘Don’t go to Senor Valdez,” she said persuadingly. 

“Why not?” 

“It is dangerous/” 

“Mrs. Krider,” he grew slightly vexed, “everything 
I’ve started to do you have told me not to do, that 
it was dangerous.” 

“No n Her lips parted in the first smile he had 
seen on her face. “There was one thing I told you 
to do that was safe—go back to Buckeye Bridge. 
But this,” she scowled heavily and her eyes clouded 
ominously “going to Senor Valdez is the most 
dangerous thing of all. Another revolution is coming 
quickly,” she spoke low and glanced up and down 
the veranda to see no one was in hearing distance; 
“they will attack Senor Valdez first. He has been 
loyal to the government and they need the loot. 
They are watching his ranch now. If they know 
you are a friend of his-” 

She left the rest to his imagination. 

“How soon is the revolution going to break?” 

“No one knows. Maybe a month—six months— 
maybe to-night. It is all ready—only waiting the 
word from some leader.” 



i82 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

“On which side is Espinosa ?” His eyes watched 
closely the effect of the question. The Mexican’s 
name always stirred some violent emotion in her. 

“Whichever side that wins.” She shut her lips 
tight. “He wants money and Senorita Maria. 
He will fight with the side that helps him get them.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Krider.” There was genuine 
appreciation in his gray eyes. “Will you tell Blanco 
to saddle our two best horses and lay out the 
four best guns on the ranch. Have them ready in 
twenty minutes.” 

Neal got up directly and went into the court 
to see if Blanco had the horses ready. From around 
the coffee pulper a small figure pitched at him as 
though thrown from a sling shot. It was Jose 
Marquard. The boy clutched his arm about one leg. 

“No—no—go, senor. No, no, go.” 

“What is up now, muchacho?” Neal ran his 
fingers through the boy’s thick black hair and smiled 
down into the agitated face. “Is it a saint’s day or 
do you object to me leaving the ranch on general 
principles? It seems everybody around here is op¬ 
posed to me taking a horseback ride.” 

“Et is dangerous, senor. They keel my senor.” 
The arm convulsively closed around Neal’s leg, and 
the boy’s eyes pleaded desperately. “He mus’ no 
go. He mus’ no go.” 

Neal looked at him gravely, wondering how much 
was childish fright and how much real knowledge. 


THE OWNER OF THE RANCH 183 

The boy might have overheard plots that had escaped 
his elders. 

“Let’s go over here and talk it over, Jose.” He 
led the boy to a bench under a tree in the patio 
where no one was in hearing. “Now, boy,” he 
laid his hand affectionately on Jose’s shoulder, 
“why don’t you want me to go away to-day?” 

The little Mexican looked about furtively, ap¬ 
prehensively. Then he leaned closer and hissed into 
Neal’s ear. 

“They hide in the woods down by river. They 
keel senor, the devils!” 

Neal smiled at the fury in the little chap’s eyes, 
but he was touched by the boy’s loyalty. 

“Is it Senor Espinosa?” 

Jose nodded. 

“Has he men here on the ranch who also would 
kill me?” Neal asked. 

Once more desperate fear swept the boy’s face, 
he gave a furtive glance around, and nodded posi¬ 
tively. 

“Des , tres hombres” 

“Two or three men, eh?” Neal puckered his lips. 
“And the rest—they do not want Senor Ashton 
killed?” 

“No, no!” The boy shook his head emphatically. 
“They very good friends to the senor.” 

“About Espinosa,” Neal looked at the boy steadily. 
“Did you see him in the woods by the river?” 


184 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


The black head shook reluctantly. 

“Did any one tell you he is there ?” 

A still more reluctant shake of the head. Then 
an outburst. 

“But he is there, senor.” 

“If you did not see him how do you know?” 

“Because he is a devil and he wish to keel senor.” 

Neal laughed with relief. It was mere boyish 
fright after all. Nevertheless he would keep his 
eyes open. 

There was the clink of horses’ feet on the cobbled 
court. Blanco was leading out their mounts. 

“Ready, Blanco?” Neal got up and went toward 
the horses. The little Mexican boy followed after 
him, terrified over his master’s danger, but more 
afraid of offending him by further protest. 

“Got the guns, Blanco?” Neal examined the saddle 
and the girth. It was a matter of habit with him 
to never mount a horse until he knew the saddle 
was right. 

“I shoah has.” 

“Blanco,” Neal rested his left hand on the saddle 
horn and turned on the big negro, “I am going to 
Senor Valdez’s ranch. I expect to return in the 
night. Are you afraid to go with me?” 

“Ah should say Ah is.” A shake of the head made 
it emphatic. 

“Very well”—Neal shut his lips closely—“you need 
not go.” 


THE OWNER OF THE RANCH 185 

The negro looked at him astonishedly, then asked: 

“Is you afraid to die?” 

Neal shook his head dubiously and grinned. 

‘T am afraid I am, Blanco.” 

“Den,” said Blanco solemnly, “you needn’t never 
die.” 

“Needn’t ever die? A fellow can’t help that— 
at times.” 

“No, sah”—Blanco put up a foot for the stirrup— 
“nuther can I help goin’ along with you—sometimes. 
You axed me if I was scared to go—I is. But if 
I didn’t do nothin’ down heah, I wasn’t scared to do, 
I wouldn’t do nuthin’ but hide in the cane—and I’m 
a little scared to do that.” 

Neal laughed, but again was moved by the black 
man’s loyalty. He had two friends at least that he 
could trust—the boy and the negro. 

“All right then”—he swung into the saddle—“we’re 
away to the hills.” 

Glancing back as a peon swung the gate open for 
them, he saw Jose standing where he left him, his 
little dark face pitifully twisted, his lips moving and 
his hand making the sign of the cross. 

“That is a good kid, Blanco.” Neal felt a swell¬ 
ing of the throat. “If his father is really killed, 
I am going to adopt him.” 

“Pro-vided,” added the negro solemnly, “you 
ain’t killed yoreself.” 


CHAPTER XXII 

DOOMED! 


IN the shelter of the rank growth along the river 
* two hundred yards from the hacienda, eight 
Mexicans lay sprawled on the ground. One, a huge 
fellow with a thick neck and big head, sat up leaning 
against a tree smoking a cigarette. His legs were 
encased in closely fitting trousers with bead work 
down the seams. He wore a silk shirt and a leather 
vest with ornamented handwork on the front. A 
wide-brimmed hat lay on the ground beside him. 
Around his thick waist was a decorative cartridge 
belt to which hung two big army revolvers. 

As he smoked, the Mexican’s large, heavy-lidded 
eyes watched the front of the hacienda through a 
gap in the underbrush. He had been watching 
two hours, noting every movement about the ranch. 

“Ha!” He emitted a breath of satisfaction as 
two horses were led out in front of the house. 

Espinosa did not stir when Neal and the negro 
mounted the two horses and rode toward the west; 
but the pufifs of cigarette smoke came faster and the 
eyes narrowed. 

“Ha!” the tone purred. “The fool goes back to 
Senor Valdez. It is easy now.” 


DOOMED! 


187 

Thank the saints, Senor Williams had given him 
a free hand. Espinosa would have acted anyway, 
hate had gone so far beyond greed, but it was well 
to have the approval of Senor Williams. Of course, 
as Senor Williams had pointed out, the removal of 
the American son of a pig would not unpay the 
mortgage. But—Senor Espinosa had thought of 
this—the revolutionist might wipe out the records 
by burning them up, then Senor Williams would 
hold the ranch on his old deed as there would be 
no witnesses against his title. 

Espinosa’s puffs of cigarette smoke grew slower 
and slower as his eyes watched the hated American 
and his black servant disappear up the road toward 
the Ranch of the Star. But his eyelids lowered un¬ 
til only long slits were left, and the hate was shot 
through with gloating anticipation. This would be 
his last ride. 

Espinosa still smoked and thought until the 
first long shadows fell across the ranch. Then 
he roused up his men. It was seven o’clock. Ashton 
would leave Senor Valdez’s hacienda about ten. It 
was two hours’ ride. They must be in plenty of 
time. 

He picked three of his best men, which meant 
the worst, and took them aside from the rest. 

“The Americano has gone to Senor Valdez’s. 
Take your horses and ride after him. Just at the 
edge of the mesa hide in the brush beside the road. 


i88 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


You can see him coming across the open space from 
the hacienda. Be ready. When he is close shoot 
all at once. 

“Let them lie where they fall and their horses go 
loose. You ride on and turn south to the camp of 
Senor General Marquard.” 

The instructions were repeated clearly and em¬ 
phatically. And the three rode away. 

Espinosa returned to the others and selected three 
more. Taking them aside to their horses and with¬ 
out any intimation of his command to those already 
gone, he ordered: 

“Senor Ashton has gone to Senor Valdez’s with 
only one servant—the negro. By and by they will 
return. You ride to where the road crosses Silver 
Creek—it is about halfway to the hacienda—you 
know the place. Hide in the willows on the bank. 
As the cursed Americano and his negro ride into 
the water you can see them clearly. All fire at once. 
Leave them where they fall, let their horses go. You 
ride on and turn to the south and join the camp of 
Senor General Marquard.” 

These three rode off. Espinosa returned to his 
remaining man—his trusted bodyguard. 

“Pedro,” he said, “even a fox cannot escape three 
deadfalls in one night We will go up to the haci¬ 
enda and wait the return of the empty saddles.” 

“No, no,” protested the astonished Pedro. “You 
not mean to go to the Hacienda of the Thorn.” 


DOOMED! 


189 


“Certainly yes,” Espinosa laughed. “I am hungry 
and thirsty. Come on, my timid one. There is no 
rabbit at the Ranch of the Thorn that dare touch 
Espinosa.” 

Mrs. Krider was directing the clearing away of 
the supper table when the big Mexican suddenly 
appeared in the arched doorway of the dining room. 

“You!” 

She clutched the edge of the table and her eyes 
stared as though fascinated by horror. 

“Me, yes.” Espinosa laughed and came swag- 
geringly across the room. “Come here, you red- 
haired she-devil and give me a kiss.” 

Still as though under some sort of spell, Mrs. 
Krider let go the edge of the table and slowly 
approached the big Mexican. He caught her by 
the wrists in a grip that would have cracked less 
fragile bones and kissed her. 

He released her arms with a motion as though 
flinging them from him, and sat down with a swag¬ 
ger at the table. 

“Now food and drink, my bony devil.” 

Pedro, who had been left outside, ventured to 
the dining-room door. 

“And for me, Senor Capitan,” he whined, “I die 
of hunger.” 

“Back to your watch, you lazy dog,” Espinosa 
ordered, “and you shall have your bone later.” 

When Mrs. Krider had slightly recovered from 


190 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

her dazed astonishment at Espinosa’s return, she 
asked: 

“What do you suppose Senor Ashton will say 
when he finds you back?” 

Espinosa scowled with hate at the mention of the 
gringo’s name. 

“The Senor Ashton will never say anything 
again.” 

“What?” The question came sharply. 

Espinosa, recalling an expression of Senor Wil¬ 
liams, laughed sinisterly. 

“The Senor Ashton is joining the Hell Club to¬ 
night.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


BLANCO HAS A HUNCH 

'T’HE sun still shone on the tops of the high trees 
* as Neal and Blanco rode along, but the jungle 
came down close beside the road, and it was shadowy 
along the trail Blanco edged his horse a little 
closer to Neal’s. 

“What was that there poetry you was sayin’ the 
other day about the big birds or something?” The 
negro rolled his eyes from side to side of the road. 

“Oh, that was Kipling,” Neal laughed, and re¬ 
peated : 

“Cheer, we’ll never march to victory, 

Cheer, we’ll never hear the bloomin’ cannons roar, 

For the big birds of prey will carry us away 
And you’ll never see your soldiers any more.” 

Blanco shook his head. 

“That fellah shoah knows how I feel right now.” 
He repeated the verse over several times until he 
learned it. Then he rode along silent until the road 
crossed Silver Creek. He began to chuckle. 

“Big birds of prey is shoah good. It’s these heah 
Mexs all right. They pray at one crossroad and 
shoots some man’s liver out at the next.” 


192 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“What was that?” Neal drew on his bridle rein 
and listened. “Did you see or hear anything ?” 

“I been seein’ and hearin’ things all along.” The 
negro’s eyes showed a wide expanse of white, but 
nevertheless his hand was on his gun in a very 
businesslike way. 

“Just a bird,” Neal reassured. 

“I reckon them big birds of pray is hangin’ on 
our tracks all right,” said Blanco. “But if it ain’t 
ouah time to die they may miss when they shoot.” 

Somehow Neal had not taken his danger very seri¬ 
ously. One is inclined to discount warnings in this 
land of constant uncertainty. If he rode safely yes¬ 
terday he feels it is safe to-day. 

“You know,” said the negro, rolling his words 
and eyes at the same time. “I’s got a hunch we’ll 
never get back alive.” 

Neal laughed. He took the darky’s fearsome 
hunch as a joke. 

“Blanco,” Neal said soberly as he dismounted and 
rang the bell at Senor Valdez’s hacienda, “you wait 
out here with the horses for a few hours.” 

“Few houahs?” the negro gasped. “Out heah in 
plain gunshot for a few houahs? No, sah, you not 
talkin’ to me. I ain’t the boy that stood on the 
burning deck. I’m going to get behind somethin’ 
bullet proof.” 

Neal laughed, and asked the servant who opened 


BLANCO HAS A HUNCH 193 

the gate to take Blanco and the horses around back 
to the corral inside the walls. 

It was Senorita Maria that he asked for, but it 
was Senor Valdez who met him in the reception hall. 
And Neal fancied he was less cordial than before, 
more coolly polite. 

The conversation did not go well. The senor’s 
eyes shifted to the door frequently, his mind seemed 
to be preoccupied. His face indicated worry. 

Neal’s heart sank lower and lower. It was ob¬ 
vious this call could not be prolonged. He had no 
business excuses that would sound convincing. He 
told Senor Valdez about his purchase of the ranch, 
and thanked him for suggesting the paper cur¬ 
rency. Valdez merely shrugged and said it was an 
accident—merely had thought of it as a bit of 
news. 

Neal tried two or three other leads, but the con¬ 
versation dwindled and died. Valdez did not in¬ 
vite him into the patio, nor offer cigars and refresh¬ 
ments. Most obviously for some reason he wanted 
him to go and go early. 

But Neal felt he could not go without seeing 
Senorita Maria. He had been hugging his good 
news all day, waiting the time that he could tell 
her. The news, of course, was not the real thing 
he wanted to tell her—only the preliminary. He 
must see her. He could not ride back into the night 
with an ache like this in his heart. 


194 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


What was the matter? Were they angry at him? 
Had he done something unpardonable ? Did they 
suspect him? 

Once more he assailed Senor Valdez’s hospitality. 
He talked humorously of Blanco. Recounted amus¬ 
ing incidents that had occurred on the ranch. But 
as dusk deepened the senor grew more and more 
restless, as though only by a supreme act of cour¬ 
tesy did he refrain from asking the caller to depart. 

Neal gave it up. He would depart before he was 
ordered to go. The jefe of the guard showed him 
through the garden. 

Just before they reached the gate there was a 
swish in the shrubbery, and Neal whirled quickly. 

“Diego,” an imperious voice spoke to the jefe, 
“go to the house and bring my mantoon, it is cool.” 

The jefe bowed low and hastened away. Neal 
stood looking longingly at the slender dark figure 
in the dusk, until the guard was out of hearing. 

“Senorita Maria,” he said softly and took a step 
toward her. 

She lifted her hand in a gesture of repulsion. 

“Why did you come here to-night?” The ques¬ 
tion was thrust at him like a glove flung into his 
face. 

“Ah, the hawk is flying to-night,” Neal remarked 
teasingly. “Or perhaps it is an eagle.” 

“Why did you come ?” The question was flung out 
flercely again. 


BLANCO HAS A HUNCH 


195 


“To see you, senorita,” Neal answered earnestly, 
“There could be no other reason. There is nothing 
that counts but you.” 

She stood perfectly rigid a moment, her head lifted 
high. 

“You are a traitor,” she said slowly, witheringly. 
“You came to spy on our hacienda for the bandits 
and the rebels. I hate you.” 

Neal was aghast. And that was the trouble. 
Somebody had been lying to them about him — 
Espinosa, that was it. The charge of treachery .stung 
him. Even the woman one loves cannot call him a 
traitor safely. 

“Sehorita,” he said with dignity, “your charges 
are wrong and foolish. I know no rebels. I have 
nothing to do with politics. And why should I plot 
against the one most beautiful girl in the world? 
The one that I love as the sun loves the day and 
as the stars love the night.” 

She wavered in the dusk for a moment, her head 
still held high. She put her hand up to her heart. 

“You have Jose Marquard, the son of the rebel 
leader,” she said as though trying to be convinced. 

“He came as a waif, thinking his father was 
killed. I’d take in a stray dog like that.” 

Again she stood in silence as though thinking it 
out. The wind stirred the garden and touched the 
dark hair. Her face was white in the dusk. Neal 


196 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

looked at her with a fierceness of longing that shook 
him to the center of his consciousness. 

Suddenly the rigidity went from her body. Her 
head drooped forward, her shoulders relaxed. Then 
she sprang at him. He did not know whether she 
was coming with a stiletto or an embrace and so 
fierce was his emotion he scarcely cared. 

She seized his arms and her fingers bit in the 
flesh. Her face was close to his, he felt her breath 
upon his cheeks. 

“Go, senor, queek!” Then swiftly changing: “No, 
no—do not go—stay! They plot against you—they 
will keel you! They lie—all of them lie! They try 
to make me hate you! But you have told the truth! 
It is in your eyes!” 

Neal’s blood rushed through his veins until the 
stars looked like flaming torches. 

“Senorita, this is the truth, the great truth—I love 
you beyond the wind, beyond the stars, beyond 
eternity.” 

Her fingers left his arm and met with swift en¬ 
dearment about his neck. She was in his arms and 
their lips met in a kiss of fierce ecstasy. 

“Senor!” The voice cut into the night like a 
sword. The girl sprang from his arms and turned 
toward her father. 

“Senor,” again the voice was cold as cutting steel, 
“your horse is ready. Never again ring the bell at 
my gate.” 


BLANCO HAS A HUNCH 


197 


A hundred yards out upon the open mesa Neal 
stopped his horse and turned to look back at the 
hacienda. 

It was early yet. The last red fringe of day had 
just been whisked from the white shoulders of 
Orizaba. A million stars sowed the darkness with 
tiny flecks of dim light. A crescent moon, hung 
halfway up the sky, silvered the pale walls of the 
hacienda. The wind came in soft waves of exotic 
fragrance. 

Neal was so deeply, so tremendously happy, the 
soul of him seemed to fill the night, seemed to em¬ 
brace the light of all the stars and the perfume of all 
the winds. 

She had kissed him! She loved him! 

Romance! Which sent obstacles—the wrath of 
parents, the plots of enemies, the stings of misfor¬ 
tune—spinning into forgetfulness like bobbing corks 
on a swirling stream. 

Neal drew a long breath. His heart seemed 
crowding for more room. 

Blanco, who had not spoken since they had rid¬ 
den away from the hacienda, broke the spell. 

“Vs got a hunch we better not go back the road 
we come.” 

Neal laughed in sheer joy of recklessness. 

“To hell with your hunch! Come on.” He turned 
his horse and galloped across the open mesa to where 
the road plunged into the wall of tropical growth. 


198 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Just at the edge of the open space Neal drew 
rein to look back again. The night was very still. 
The wind stirred the rank leaves. A bird screamed 
off in the jungle. 

Blanco, fearfully peering into the darkness, shiv¬ 
ered. 

“For the Lawd’s sake, come on,” he begged. “We’s 
sittin’ out heah like crows on a limb waitin’ to be 
shot.” 

Neal laughed again and rode on down the dark 
road. Although the trail was narrow in places and 
rank ferns and limbs of trees leaned over it, Blanco 
crowded his horse up beside Neal’s and rode neck and 
neck. 

They had gone about two miles when Blanco 
reached over and caught the rein of Neal’s horse 
and whispered awesomely: 

“White man, I’s tellin’ you dar is somethin’ wrong 
with this heah night.” 

“Blanco, you have got the jumps.” 

“Sh!” warned the negro. “I’s got a hunch we is 
goin’ to be killed.” 

Neal did not laugh this time. The superstition 
of the negro, and something uncanny in the night 
got hold of his nerves. They sat and listened a 
few minutes. Neal picked up the reins. This fear 
was foolish, but again the negro’s hand went out 
and caught the bridle rein. 

“Sh—listen!” 


BLANCO HAS A HUNCH 


199 


Unmistakably there were sounds this time—a 
horse’s hoof striking a rock, a murmur of voices 
down the road ahead. Neal acted quickly. They 
dismounted and led their horses a safe distance 
into the thicket and then slipped back to a clump 
of bamboo beside the road. 

The three Mexicans were making no effort to 
conceal their movements; they came riding along 
and talking in quite a hilarious way. 

“I am going to have his gun,” said one. 

‘Til have his pocketbook,” announced the fellow 
riding in front. 

“No,” called the one behind, “you can have the 
black one’s teeth—you need them.” 

They all laughed. 

“But,” reminded the third, “el capitan say leave 
hem lie where they shot—we not to touch them.” 

“What difference,” grumbled the leader, “so long 
as they are dead?” 

“Why does Espinosa want the gringo killed?” 

“Who knows? Perhaps he get too many kisses.” 

“Then we’ll have a long wait. He won’t leave 
until moondown.” 

There was a laugh and three rode on out of hear¬ 
ing. 

“My Lawd!” Blanco’s teeth fairly clicked. “You 
suppose that’s all of ’em?” 

Neal did not reply. He felt weak, as a man who 
has leaped a wide chasm and, finding himself safe, 


200 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


looks down to to see what he missed. These as¬ 
sassins had planned to lie in wait for them, and 
only the miracle of an early return had saved them. 

“That was a narrow escape, Blanco,” Neal said 
soberly. 

“It shoah was.” The negro shook his head 
awesomely. “We’s close enough to a tombstone 
to shake hands wid the angel on it. Whenever 
one of these heah hunches speaks to me, I’s shore 
listenin’.” 

There was no particular thought of further danger, 
yet they naturally rode with caution and kept a 
close watch ahead for any suspicious movements in 
the dark. 

The road turned down Silver Creek for two 
hundred yards before it made a crossing. The 
ground was soft and the horses’ hoofs made little 
sound. They were riding at a walk and were saying 
nothing. 

Just ahead the road made a turn for the ford. 
The creek here was twenty yards wide, shallow and 
babbling. 

It was Neal who put out his hand this time. 
Blanco stopped with promptness. A sound had come 
from across the creek as of a horse stamping in the 
thicket. 

Neal sat and listened. The sound came again. 
Horses were hitched in the woods across. Perhaps 
another band of assassins were lying in wait. 


BLANCO HAS A HUNCH 


201 


That was it. Neal’s quick mind caught Espinosa’s 
strategy. He had planned to be thorough. He had 
sent out two bands to be posted at different places. 
If their victims escaped one the other was to 
kill them. 

Neal dismounted and signaled Blanco to do the 
same. 

“Will the horses go home if turned loose?” he 
whispered. 

The negro nodded. Neal struck his horse lightly 
across the withers with his riding whip. 

The two horses jumped and went galloping to the 
ford and splashed into the stream. Neal and the 
negro again hid beside the road where they could 
see the ford. 

As the horses went on up the other bank they saw 
men cautiously come from the cover of the thicket. 
The animals snorted and galloped on. 

The Mexicans brought out their own ponies, 
mounted and came across the creek. 

One of them crossed himself: 

“Our work is over,” he said; “the gringo is dead. 
We ride to camp.” 

Espinosa still sat at the table. He had been eating 
and drinking more than an hour and was enjoying 
to the full this meal on his dead host. Mrs. Krider 
sat at the side of the table listening to him, ready 
to wait upon him. 


202 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Pedro again appeared at the door. 

"Senor,” he was excited, "the empty saddles 
have returned.’ , 

“Bueno! Bueno!” The Mexican threw up his 
right arm in a gesture of victory. Mrs. Krider’s 
fingers clutched the edge of the table and her lips 
quivered a moment. 

"Put our horses up,” ordered Espinosa, "and come 
in and have a drink. On a night like this even a 
dog may drink with his master.” 

The big Mexican and his servant were taking 
their fifth drink when Pedro, who faced toward the 
doorway, let his glass slip from his hand. Espinosa 
seeing the horror on Pedro’s face, turned heavily in 
his chair. His own large face grew splotched, his 
eyes looked wild, his fingers fumbled toward his 
holster. There in the doorway stood two ghosts— 
a white one and a black one. 

But before the drunken fingers found the butt 
of his pistol both his hands lifted automatically into 
the air. Neal walked up to him slowly, a gun 
leveled at his chest. 

"Senor,” he said deliberately, "I am merciful to- 
night. But the next time we meet death will walk 
between us, his face your way. Come. We ride.” 

At daylight Neal put the big, cursing Mexican 
on a train at Cordoba, bound for Mexico City. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


TROUBLE AH EAD 

TN a world of labyrinthine pitfalls it is difficult 
for the wisest man to pick the safe path. No 
wonder the ignorant perish like flies. Their beliefs 
are founded on rumor, their actions prompted by 
inflamed prejudices. 

The Mexican people are not stupid. They have 
plenty of natural wit, but unfortunately a very 
large per cent are illiterate. They lack any common 
means of knowing the truth about public affairs. 
They have to get their information about men and 
movements by word of mouth. And much as we 
decry the unreliability of the press it is infinitely 
more accurate than the gossip of the most intelligent 
and truthful people. 

In London a year or so ago, for one day no daily 
papers were issued. Within twelve hours the whole 
city was rife with the most fantastic rumors of 
horrible national calamities. While we may not 
believe all we read, we know that any fantastic 
rumor is impossible or the thing would have been 
in the newspapers. 

Mexico lacks this corrective force, this national 
means of getting to practically all the people the same 


204 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

information the same day. Thus they are left open 
to the dangerous influence of the demagogue, the 
mercenary secret agent and the virulent propagandist. 

Mexico was tired of revolution, and yet hate was 
rife and small leaders here and there kept their 
bands organized ready for another raid, another at¬ 
tempt to overthrow the government. 

Carranza’s hold was slipping. In spite of the 
poverty and tiredness, here and there in different 
parts of the country opposition began to arise. 
Everybody knew that a leader of force could over¬ 
throw the government. It was only a matter of 
weeks or days until such a leader arose. 

Then one day the news spread through Mexico 
City. 

“Carranza has broken with General Obregon.” 

The news was electric. General Obregon had 
been Carranza’s best friend and was the strong man 
of the north. 

The people held their breaths to see if the break 
would be patched up. Instead Carranza loaded troops 
upon a train and ordered them to Senora to arrest 
the governor. Obregon sent a wire to the presidente. 

If troops enter Senora it means war. 

The troops did enter Senora pr tried to and 
the war was on. Immediately State after State 
joined the revolt; and Obregon raised an army and 
started for Mexico City. 


TROUBLE AHEAD 


205 


Bernard Williams walked the floor of his office 
on Cinco de Mayo Street like a caged bear that 
had been stung by bees. As often as the news¬ 
boys appeared on the street shrilly crying a new 
edition, he sent his Mexican stenographer out for a 
copy. 

But each edition, instead of allaying his fears, 
caused him to grow more and more alarmed. The 
revolution was rising like steam in a gauge. The 
explosion would follow quickly. 

Williams’ bulbous nose swelled and reddened. His 
small eyes filled with ferocious resentment. He 
lighted cigarette after cigarette, and threw them on 
the floor with only half a puff. 

He had spent eleven of the twelve thousand dol¬ 
lars in American gold which he had realized on the 
Ranch of the Thorn on Mexicans who professed 
to have great influence with Carranza, in an effort 
to get his signature to the free port concession. 
But the papers were still unsigned. Now the great 
collapse was coming. Carranza would no longer 
be presidente and he, Bernard Williams, who had 
worked so hard, would have his pockets cleaned to 
the seams. 

He cursed Carranza. He cursed Mexico, he cursed 
every Mexican he knew, and last and most blight- 
ingly he cursed Neal Ashton. Through every other 
revolution the Ranch of the Thorn had been his 


206 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


mainstay, always there to fall back on for another 
start. Now even it was gone. 

The office door opened, without a knock. Williams 
swung about with his hand on his gun. 

Espinosa dropped his wide-brimmed hat on the 
floor, and swept the office with large, malicious eyes. 

“Good news, senor,” he said suavely. 

“Like hell you say!” glowered Williams. “Where 
does the good news come in?” 

“The revolution.” Espinosa lighted a cigarette 
and took a chair, and crossed his large legs. “It 
breaks.” 

“How in the devil is the revolution good news?” 
growled Williams, scowling malevolently. 

Espinosa’s eyes looked down at the toe of his 
gaudy boot. 

“Now we can strike,” he said significantly. 

“Strike?” bellowed Williams. “Strike whom?” 

Espinosa shrugged. 

“Our enemies.” 

Williams slammed down in a chair and leaned 
toward the Mexican. 

“Damn it, just what are you getting at?” 

Espinosa got up and looked in the private office, 
and the closet, and then locked the door. Returning 
he sat down and spoke with low-toned satisfaction. 

“The revolution, it will be a success.” 

“Of course it will. That is the devil of it. 
Where do we come in?” 


TROUBLE AHEAD 207 

Espinosa took the cigarette from his mouth and 
blew the smoke from his nose. 

“As the senor advised I join the revolution. I 
joined last week. Senor Marquard is the chief for 
that country. He would not act until a leader 
appeared, strong enough to make sure Carranza 
will fall. Now he will act.” 

“But-” impatiently broke in Williams. 

“One moment.” The Mexican lifted his big 
hand. “I will be a capitan, maybe a colonel under 
Marquard. We will attack the American swine at the 
Ranch of the Thorn.” He spat on the rug. “And 
then Valdez.” 

“What good will that do us?” Williams wanted 
to know. 

“Ah, senor,” Espinosa put his hand on his heart 
and bowed, “it will give me my heart’s desire—the 
beautiful Senorita Maria—and you, you may have 
back your ranch.” 

Williams got on his feet. 

“By hell, you have a head on you if you are a 
damned Mexican. Now if I could only get old 
Carranza on the dotted line before they plug him 
with a .44 bullet we’d be riding strong. I tell you,” 
Williams broke into a new hope, “I’ll go myself. I’ll 
beard him in his castle and get his signature or die 
in the attempt. I’ve got one more pull, and it’ll 
get me in.” 



208 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


He was already reaching for his hat and cane* 
Espinosa arose and moved toward the door. 
“Adios, mi amigo” The Mexican was jaunty now 
with the taste of coming revenge in his mouth. “To¬ 
night I am with Senor General Marquard. To-morrow 

night-” He kissed his fingers toward the sky and 

winked hard. 


CHAPTER XXV 


LOVE LETTERS 

’T'HURSDAY morning Neal saw that there was 
something apprehensive in the movements of 
his men. As they went to work they had an uneasy 
look of animals who feel an approaching storm. They 
worked aimlessly as though their minds were on 
something else and stopped often to look behind 
them or to scan the far line of fields. 

About ten o’clock Neal went over into the coffee 
field. He loved to walk among the trees. Some 
of the berries were grown now—almost as large as 
cherries, and the limbs were full. Those who knew 
told him there never before had been such a crop 
on the trees in the life of the orchard. 

The glossy green leaves, the clusters of berries, 
the sturdy bushes, the sprinkled shade of the huisache, 
meant more to him than the promise of a good 
bank account and freedom from money worries. It 
meant the rich aroma of romance which he would 
send in cargoes to be scattered to all parts of the 
world. What rest from tiredness, what good fellow¬ 
ship, what fragrant dreams over the million cups 
that would be brewed from the coffee on these trees. 


210 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


And his own wonderful romance would be mingled 
in the fragrance of every cup. 

An old man was running desperately along the 
road, stopping often to look back. Twice he stum¬ 
bled and fell. Neal wondered, for a Mexican does 
not run merely for exercise. The old man passed 
out of sight. Five minutes later as Neal went to¬ 
ward the house, two men rode galloping down the 
road in the same direction. He stopped and watched 
them until they turned into the timber along the 
stream. They looked like Carranza troops. Neal 
started on. The crack of a rifle brought him up 
sharp. Two other shots followed. 

A few minutes later the two horsemen reappeared 
riding leisurely, jestingly back toward town. It 
might have been nothing, but Neal thought of the 
running old man, and a sinister chill crept along 
his spine. The two soldiers had just made the turn 
beyond the coffee field when again came the crack 
of guns in quick succession. 

Gunshots on a country road were not uncommon, 
and Neal had almost dismissed the matter from his 
mind by noon. But as he started to the house to 
lunch Blanco rushed up to him, his eyes rolling, his 
mouth open. 

“Dey killed two up theah!” He pointed in the 
direction of the last shots. 

“Who did?” 

“These heah revolutionists, I reckon.” Blanco 


LOVE LETTERS 


211 


wiped his cotton sleeve across his forehead. “Any¬ 
ways they killed two soldiers up theah and buried 
’em under the fence.” 

“Does any one else know?” Neal asked. 

“No, sah, I just found ’em—I’s by myself.” 

“Don’t tell anybody,” Neal ordered, “until I find 
out something about it.” 

But the field hands had heard the shots and their 
look of apprehension had increased. He saw they 
were at the jumpy state where an unexpected scare 
would start a stampede. 

Instead of going in to lunch Neal went up to his 
room. He laid out two guns on the table and took 
stock of his ammunition. He examined the door to 
see what chance there was for an effective barracade. 
The ranch had stood a siege at least once before 
as evidenced by those thousands of pockmarks in the 
stucco outside. But that, he had heard, was merely 
a gang of bandits on a raid. 

This looked like a real revolution. If so, there 
would be at least a semblance of order, and an 
effort to protect property. Revolutionists who expect 
to win and rule afterward want something left to 
collect taxes on—also they want as much good 
will as can be carried over. 

He sat down to think out a course of action. 
Either he must arm and organize his men to put 
up a hard fight if the ranch was attacked, or else 
they must offer no resistance at all. 


212 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


If either the revolutionist or the Carranza troops 
attacked the ranch it would be for plunder, and 
they would attack in considerable numbers. Neal 
mistrusted his chances for defense. The men were 
loyal as workers, but most of them had suffered 
bitter experiences from the hands of revolutionary 
bands, and they were in mortal terror of them. 
Neal doubted if he could count on more than a half 
dozen putting up a stiff fight. 

In that case it would be far better to offer no 
resistance at all—that is to any organized band of 
troops. Of course they would not let straggling 
bandits carry off their stuff. But if the revolutionists 
approached he would merely try by strategy to save 
as much of his stuff as possible. 

He put one gun in his pocket, but dropped the 
other in the drawer of his table, and went down¬ 
stairs, and called Blanco. 

“Tell the men," he ordered, “to meet in the corral 
after they have eaten. I want to speak to them." 

He asked Mrs. Krider to come to his office. 

“I guess the revolution is about to break," he 
said to the red-haired widow as she took the straight 
chair by the corner of his desk. 

“It is." She inclined her head fatalistically. 

“In the fighting," he balanced a pencil on his 
thumb, “the ranch is pretty sure to be raided by 
one side or the other, maybe both. I have decided 
I am not able sufficiently to fight them." 


LOVE LETTERS 


213 


"We certainly are not.” Mrs. Krider agreed for 
once and most emphatically. 

"Without taking sides,” Neal went on judicially, 
"I am going to try to manage whoever comes along 
and save what I can.” 

"You are not going to try to stay on the ranch?” 
Mrs. Krider blazed with amazement. 

Neal nodded. 

"I most certainly am.” 

He smiled quickly as she opened her lips to speak. 

"Don’t say it, Mrs. Krider. You have said it 
before. Perhaps I am a fool, but not as big a 
one as you think. I really do not believe there is 
as much danger as you imagine. Anyway, the ranch 
is all I have and I am going to stay with it, but 
I am going to give everybody else a chance to leave. 
You and all the women and girls better go to 
Cordoba. I don’t want-” 

Mrs. Krider gave the corner of her mouth a 
sarcastic twist. 

"You don’t seem ever to learn. Down here women 
are less important than men and need less protec¬ 
tion. If the men stay, we stay. I’m not in as much 
danger as you are, for I haven’t any special enemies.” 

"I advise you strongly to go. But in a revolu¬ 
tion one never can be sure but the place he is 
going to is not more dangerous than the one he left; 
so I’ll let you decide for yourself.” 

"I stay.” She rose and gave her shoulders a 



214 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


positive jerk. “And of course the rest of the women 
will stay with me.” 

“Thank you.” Neal merely inclined his head as 
she left the room. 

Outside in the corral the hands had gathered. 
Neal saw their uneasy, dogged look. They were 
expecting to be asked to fight, and were secretly 
planning in their minds what would be the best time 
to run away. 

“Friends,” Neal got up on the corner of a cement 
hog trough and spoke in a clear, friendly tone, “there 
is a chance the ranch may be attacked. I am an 
American citizen and have no right to take sides. I 
expect you to take no part as long as you are on the 
ranch. We shall offer no resistance. Don’t carry 
guns to the field with you. Do not fire at men 
who ride up here. We will receive whoever comes 
as friends. Now, I think you will be safer working 
here in the field unarmed than you will be in hiding 
and running about the country. Most men killed at 
times like this are men shot in the back running away 
with guns in their pockets.” 

The field hands scattered to their work in lighter 
spirits than they had felt for days. They had 
expected to be called upon to fight, and had come 
together furtively planning when it would be best to 
make their escape. The words of the senor were 
true. It would be safer working in the fields than 
running through the woods. 


LOVE LETTERS 


215 


Neal returned to the house, his mind already busy 
with another and greater problem. How was he to 
see Senorita Maria again? 

In Buckeye Bridge a girl’s father did not count 
for much with the young man. It was different 
here. Especially when the father had a hundred 
trained guards at his command. But there must be 
some way. And it must be found very, very soon. 
Time that stretched between him and Senorita Maria 
was intolerable. 

The senorita was with him wherever he turned, 
at every hour. Through all this fierce uncertainty 
as to whether he would be a broken, penniless 
derelict in a strange, cruel country, or a wealthy 
hacienda owner in a land of romance; whether he 
was to live, or whether he was to be killed by 
stealth; the thought of Senorita Maria was like dis¬ 
tant music, like evening incense. When the heart 
is aflame all other fires are but the red roses of 
adventure. 

Espinosa was in love with her, too. That is, he 
wanted her. Neal could not think of any of 
Espinosa’s feelings being love. And as long as 
Espinosa was at large, the path to the Ranch of the 
Star would be waylaid by assassins. But Neal 
might dodge them; it was Senor Valdez that he 
feared most. This was Mexico, this was Spain of 
two hundred years ago. When Senor Valdez ordered 
a man to stay beyond his gates one would be 


2l6 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


riding toward something very different from romance 
if he disobeyed. 

Yet Neal must get word to Senorita Maria. He 
called the big negro. 

“Blanco, do you know of a Mexican on the 
ranch who could ride to hell and back over high 
waters and not get either drowned or singed ?” 

Blanco shook his head and grinned. 

“I knows a lot of ’em that could get to hell; but 
none of ’em that could ever get back.” 

Neal laughed. “And yet you like ’em, Blanco, 
as I do. Good fellows in their way and loyal 
to their friends. What I want is to send a note 
to Senor Valdez’s ranch.” 

“Jose,” suggested the negro. 

“Sure enough!” Neal exclaimed. “Jose is just 
the chap. Nobody will bother a boy. As long as 
there is a thread of manhood as large as a cobweb 
in a fellow he won’t mistreat a boy. And no man 
on the ranch knows his way around better than Jose.” 

Blanco went for the boy while Neal carefully 
penciled a few lines on a leaf of his notebook. He 
thought it better to write it in English. She could 
read it, but few others into whose hands it might 
fall could. Instead of the stilted veiled note that he 
would have written to a girl at Buckeye Bridge, Neal 
unconsciously fell into the romantic, passionate 
language of his inamorata. 


LOVE LETTERS 


217 


Senorita, when the sun first touches the snows of 
Orizaba, I kiss you awake. In the noon sun, my love 
covers you as the shade of the trees. In the quick fra¬ 
grant dusk I come to you and hold you in my arms until 
all the stars turn into rose flames of love. Send me one 
word. 

Blanco came with the Mexican boy. Neal tore 
the leaf from his notebook and folded it carefully. 

“Jose,” he looked at the boy straightly, “are you 
my friend?” 

“Si, si!" Most emphatically. 

“Can you get this note to Senorita Maria?” 

Jose nodded assuredly. “I will go the back way 
—in among the servants. I will get the senor’s note 
to the senorita.” 

“If you do,” said Neal, “I will give you ten pesos. 
If you bring me a reply I will give you twenty 
pesos.” 

“No, no!” the boy shook his head. “Et is for my 
friend I take et.” 

“Then I will be your friend always. But may 
not a friend give another a present of twenty pesos, 
Jose?” 

“Oh, si si/' The boy agreed readily. “One may 
give his friend many presents.” 

“You are not afraid, Jose?” 

“No, no.” 

“There will be no danger to you?” Neal did 
not think there would. 


2l8 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“No, no,” Jose lied faithfully. He knew there 
would. In times of revolution boys died, too. 

With the lights all out, Neal sat in the doorway 
that opened from his room upon the upper veranda, 
listening and watching for a rider in the dark. It 
was midnight and Jose had not returned. He had 
abused himself with every harsh name he could 
recall for having sent the boy. If anything happened 
to Jose he would hate himself forever. It would 
be useless to go in search of him. If nothing hap¬ 
pened he would return; if anything had, it was too 
late. Yet an hour more of waiting and Neal would 
be riding after the boy. 

Near one o’clock there was the sound of horses’ 
hoofs—running. Neal leaped up and hurried down, 
ready to open the gate. His heart jumped with 
relief as the rider came near. It was the boy. He 
caught him in his arms as he leaped from the horse. 

“Did you give it to her?” 

“Si, si” The boy’s heart pounded hard. He had 
been scared after all. 

Neal did not question further until they were in 
his room upstairs. There Jose told how he had 
gone the back way and behind the walls wliere he 
had beguiled one of Senor Valdez’s servants to take 
him inside. He had told one of the senoras that he 
was the nephew of the jefe of the guard and he 
wanted to speak with Senorita Maria. 


LOVE LETTERS 


219 


The senorita was in the garden—it was the time 
of sundown. He slipped to her the senor's note. 

“Did she read it? What did she say?” Eagerly. 

The boy's black eyes lightened. “Ah, senor, she 
said nothing. She pressed her hand here.” He 
put his palm over his heart. “She turned very 
white, then very red. She drew deep breath and 
look up at the sky—very happy.” 

“Did she send any reply?” 

Jose nodded and brought a crumpled bit of paper 
from inside his shirt. 

Neal's fingers shook as he unfolded it by the lamp. 

“Ah, senor, the nightingale flies to-night. The hawk 
he is far, far away. When the senor think of poor leetle 
Maria, she think of hem two times more. 

Neal folded the note and put it in the pocket 
next to his heart. He felt that until this moment 
happiness had been a mere myth. But there was 
something yet unsaid in the boy's face. 

“Did anything else happen?” 

Jose frowned puzzled. “Yes, something most 
curious. Senorita gave him cakes and fruit. She 
stroked his hair. She very lovely. Then she go 
with him to his horse. He get on saddle, she stroke 
his hand and ask his name. When he say, "Jose 
Marquard,' she, quickly like lightning, become so 
angry he fear she kill him. Her eyes they look like 


220 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


black daggers and she say over and over 'The 
traitor. He send spy/ 

"I very scared,” finished Jose, "and I ran my 
horse away very fast.” Then in puzzled reflection, 
"I wonder why she like senor so well one minute, 
and call hem traitor the next.” 

"I wonder,” Nears happiness had gone like a lamp 
snapped out by a bullet. "Thanks, my boy, run along 
now to bed.” 

And Neal blew out the light and sat in the dark 
until daylight. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE ARMY ARRIVES 



'WO days passed and no further sign of the 


revolutionists. Neal and Blanco had found the 
body of the old man whom the soldiers had shot, 
in the jungle along the river, and had buried it. 
Neal had a feeling the ranch was being watched, 
perhaps surrounded, but no attack was made. 

Saturday morning he was in the office making out 
a list of supplies to send in to Cordoba that after¬ 
noon. The men were all in the field, most of the 
women were down by the little stream busy with 
their washing. Blanco came rushing in, stumbled 
over a chair and fell in the hall. 

“Oh, Lawdy, massa!” He groaned and scrambled 
to his feet. “They’re cornin’, boss,” he gurgled as 
he reached the office. 

Neal got up and went out on the south veranda. 
Emerging from the timber along the river was a 
fringe of men with guns closing down on the 
ranch, as though ready for the final dash. At sight 
of him a dozen guns cracked and three or four 
scattering bullets spattered against the stucco wall. 

Neal did not run to cover. There was a chance 
one of the bullets might hit him, but more chances 


222 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


that they would not. He walked to the front of 
the veranda and sat down on the rail. He wanted 
them to know he was not fighting but was not 
afraid. They must not feel they had captured the 
ranch. Three or four other shots spattered wild, 
then the firing stopped. The men closed up their 
ranks and came on toward the house, curiously and 
warily. It might be a trap, they thought. 

It was harder for Neal to sit there after they 
quit firing than before. The life of the owner of 
a ranch was not worth much when bandits caught 
him. They came nearer—he could see their faces— 
hear their voices. One of them at any moment 
might take a shot at him at close range. And 
once the firing started again it would be the end 
of him. 

They were marching more rapidly now. There 
were three or four hundred of them, and they came 
on with greater confidence. They could see no 
sign of guns sticking from windows or from be¬ 
hind doors. Their leader halted the soldiers in the 
yard not thirty yards from where Neal sat and 
smoked. Neal arose deliberately and came down 
the steps to meet the officer. 

“Buenos dias, senor.” Neal spoke courteously. 

“Buenos dias,” replied the officer. He was a 
swarthy, squat Mexican with thick shoulders, and 
wore a nondescript uniform that bore all the marks 
of official rank from that of a sergeant to a general. 


THE ARMY ARRIVES 


223 


But Neal was not deceived by the grotesque uni¬ 
form—this fellow was a formidable fighter—and 
there was a sullen, purposeful look in his dark, pock¬ 
marked face. 

“Senor,” Neal extended his hand, “my ranch is 
poorly prepared to entertain you, but such as we 
have is yours.” 

A gesture of politeness, especially when backed by 
real kindliness is almost irresistible in Mexico. Even 
the man who is appointed to kill you will respond 
to your civilities. The swarthy commander took 
Neal’s hand and bowing thanked him for his gracious 
hospitality. 

“Invite your officers,” Neal suggested in Spanish, 
“to come in with you, and have refreshments. I 
will send servants to bring food and drink for the 
soldiers.” 

Neal sent out first a package of cigarettes for 
each man. Nothing will come nearer saving a fel¬ 
low’s life in a camp of bandits than a package of 
cigarettes. 

As Neal sat down with the commander and four 
of his officers he knew that he was under guard. 
In spite of the general’s politeness they had guns 
and knives in readiness to stop any move he might 
make to escape. 

The frightened servants, at Neal’s command, set 
before them bread and cold meats, fruit and beer 
and tequila and cigarettes. 


224 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


When they finished there was a moment of awk¬ 
ward silence. So far Neal had kept up the illusion 
that these men were honored guests, and he the 
gracious host. It was a little difficult for the com¬ 
mander, rough fighter as he was, to break the news 
that Neal was to be shot, and the ranch looted. 
But that was unmistakably what they had come for. 

Neal felt the ominousness of the silence and 
again took the initiative. 

“Senor general,” he said judicially, “I am a poor 
man, but recently come to your country with no 
money. But if your men need provisions, there 
are five, perhaps six, fat steers in the corral—and 
a few sheep. There is sugar also, and potatoes 
to which you are welcome.” 

The commander, as though with a physical twist, 
broke the spell of politeness and got to his feet. 
His men instantly arose. 

“We’ll attend to that,” he said gruffly. “An 
enemy of liberty does not buy his life with five 
head of steers.” 

Neal had also arisen. He looked unflinchingly at 
the commander. 

“Just what does the senor mean?” he asked in 
Spanish. 

“That the Senor Ashton is a friend of the hated 
Carranza and an enemy of our glorious cause.” 

At the mention of Carranza a look of the blackest 


THE ARMY ARRIVES 


225 


hate came into the commander’s face. Neal knew 
that murder was near the surface and spoke quietly. 

“Senor Ashton is an American citizen and does 
not presume to take a part in the quarrels of 
Mexico. He is a friend to any man of honor.” 

“The senor,” scowled the commander, “has plotted 
with the hated Carranza, the vile beast who killed 
my father and my brother and my son. No friend 
of his shall live.” 

The four officers had drawn their revolvers and 
formed a half circle about Neal. He knew his life 
was forfeit. For a moment a wild terror swept 
him, and left him feeling weak as a reed. But he 
managed to keep steady on his feet. He was think¬ 
ing of Senorita Maria—after all, was everything to 
end in dark oblivion? 

“The senor has been misinformed,” he said to the 
commander. “No doubt my enemy, Senor Espinosa, 
has lied to him.” 

The commander’s face grew darkly menacing. 

“It is the Senor Ashton who lies. El Capitan 
Espinosa is an honorable friend of liberty. You 
are our prisoner.” He nodded to his men. 

Two of them seized Neal’s arms, the other two 
shoved pistol barrels into his back. 

They turned to march him to the door. Neal saw 
his house boy, Jose Marquard, crouched on the stair¬ 
way. The boy’s eyes were wild, his face working. 


226 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


With a fierce cry he sprang toward the soldiers 
who started back at his unexpected onslaught. 

The commander with a guttural cry swooped down 
and grabbed the boy. Neal jerked loose and started 
to strike the general, thinking he was going to hurt 
the little chap. Instead, the swarthy commander had 
Jose hugged in his arms and was patting him be¬ 
tween the shoulders and calling him endearing names. 
The commander straightened up in a moment and 
looked at Neal. 

“Senor,” he said, “how does my boy come to 
be in your house? I thought he was dead.” 

The boy released from his father’s arm, jumped 
to Neal’s side and grabbed one of his hands in 
both of his. 

“Mi amigo, mi bueno amigo!” He cried. And 
repeated over and over that Neal was his very good 
friend, his very dear friend. 

Then he told excitedly how he had come when he 
thought his father dead, to the Ranch of the Thorn, 
and how the Senor Americano had taken him in. 

The commander turned and bowed low to Neal. 
“Will the Senor Ashton accept the gratitude of 
Jose Marquard and his fellow patriots for his 
gracious hospitality? If the senor will be so good 
as to sell us a small amount of provisions we will 
be deeply grateful.” 

Neal went out with him to the army smoking 
in the shade. The soldiers saw instantly that he 


THE ARMY ARRIVES 


227 


was in well with the commander, and gestured and 
smiled amiably as he passed along the line, asking 
if they wished anything more to eat or drink. 
Three steers and a few hundred pounds of potatoes 
and two sacks of sugar were all they would take. 
The commander led his son to the horse which 
had been brought up. Neal saw the lad looking 
back at him sadly. No Mexican boy had ever had 
a better time than Jose on the Ranch of the Thorn. 

“Senor,” said Neal, “if you feel the lad would 
be safer here with me until the war is over I shall 
be happy to take care of him.” The father looked 
down at Jose thoughtfully. A Mexican loves his 
children and wants them with him. But Marquard 
knew there was hard riding and fighting and danger 
ahead. 

“Bueno” he said decisively, and turned the boy 
back to Neal. “The saints protect the senor for 
his goodness.” He mounted his horse, saluted and 
marched his men away. 

Neal sat down on the edge of the veranda and 
leaned against a post as he watched them go. When 
they were out of sight he felt as weak as though 
he had been poured against the post. If it had not 
been for the accident of the boy being with him, 
he would now be buried down there by those crosses 
under a fresh layer of earth. Lucky, too, that Mar¬ 
quard and not Espinosa had been in command. When 
Espinosa came there could be no nonresistance. 


228 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


The hands had hurried out from the fields when 
they saw the soldiers come to the house. They had 
watched for the smoke to rise, watched to see the 
stock driven away. And when the revolutionists 
had ridden off without molesting the ranch the 
superstitious peons came out of hiding and ap¬ 
proached the house with a feeling of awe. Senor 
Ashton was protected by some supernatural power. 
Some special saint was looking after him. 

Blanco alone talked it over with Neal after supper. 

“I shoah nearly busted mah ear listenin' for 
you to be shot,” he said. 

“Where were you?” Neal asked. 

“Fs hid in the coffee drier,” he confessed grin- 
ningly. “Shoah did.” Blanco shook his head at the 
incredibility of it. “Youah shoah luckier than Senor 
Valdez will be.” 

“Valdez?” Neal stiffened. “You don’t suppose 
they will attack his ranch.” 

“They’ve done done it,” nodded Blanco. “I 
heard two of ’em talkin’ about it when they was 
foolin’ around the coffee drier waitin’ for pulque. 
They was goin’ to join Espinosa and attack ’em 
at dark.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 

REVOLUTION ! 

XTEAL rode alone. He had not asked even Blanco 
^ to accompany him. There are dangers a man 
would rather encounter single-handed. 

No one had ever loved his life more, and none 
had ever thought less of it than Neal did to-night 
as he galloped up the trail toward the Ranch of the 
Star. 

It was near midnight and a half moon near its 
setting threw a pale weird light over the tropical 
jungle beside the narrow road. The night was still 
and heavy with brooding, sinister shadows. Neal 
had a feeling that he was too late. That murder 
had already been done and the assassins escaped into 
the poison night of weird shadows. At every turn 
he might meet them, might ride straight upon their 
bloody knives and ready guns. But life meant 
only one thing to Neal to-night. There was only 
one urge. He must find Senorita Maria. If she 
were alive he would make a way to her. If she 
were dead what a damnable blank, sickening chaos 
it would be! Nothing would matter. 

Far up the road came the sound of galloping 
horses. He stood aside, concealed in the black 


230 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


shelter of the jungle. The soldiers galloped by— 
a dozen of them—officers, their swords rattling 
against their saddles. 

Neal rode on. Again he turned out. Voices this 
time, angry, half drunk, quarreling voices. Soldiers 
on foot. They, too, passed. 

The moon was still not quite gone when ne 

emerged upon the open plateau in front of the 
hacienda. There was nothing astir in the open 
space. The hacienda was still and showed no lights. 

Possibly the attack had been abandoned, or had 
been merely a rumor. A little flare of hope lighted 
Neal’s feeling of dull fatality. After all she might 
be sleeping safely in her chamber yonder, with the 
sweet scent of gardenias blowing through her window. 

But as he galloped toward the wall, the hope 

died. The gate was wide open, torn from its 

hinges and flung broken beside the entrance. 

Neal jumped from his horse and entered through 
the archway. In the dim, weird light he saw the 
doors and windows of the hacienda were all open— 
and the house silent. 

He stopped to listen. Distantly he thought he 

caught the sound of human voices. Then stillness 
again. 

He moved along the path as though walking in 
a dream through a deserted city. His foot struck 
something that made him recoil. It was a body. 


REVOLUTION! 


231 

He bent over and peered at the dead man. It was 
the jefe of the guard. 

There were other dark things like this across the 
path, strewn along the edge of the garden. Bodies. 
A night-marish horror gripped him, but among the 
scattered dark figures was a bit of white—a woman’s 
dress. He ran to her and stooped over. It was 
one of the servant girl’s; a dark splotch on the 
walk. Her throat had been cut. 

It was not merely loot they had come for here; 
but they had taken terrible vengeance on Senor 
Valdez and his followers for their loyalty to the 
government. 

Neal walked on toward the house, gripped by 
horror beyond comprehension. A city of dead with 
the weird faint moon’s gray light on the white 
walls and dark doorways. 

He passed through the arched entrance, clut¬ 
tered by loot that had been broken and abandoned. 
Through the dark hall he felt his way. Twice 
his foot touched dead bodies, and he stooped and 
touched them to be sure it was not—she. Out in 
the patio were more discarded loot that had been 
flung down from the verandas above. The doors 
of all the chambers up there were open—mere blank 
splotches in the wall. 

Were they all dead? Or did some escape? 

“A cigarette, senor?” Neal whirled, startled by 


232 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


the voice. It was a man half propped against the 
pepper tree. 

“Who are you?” Neal approached. 

“One of the servants they thought dead,” he 
replied. 

Neal lighted a match, bent over and looked at the 
fellow’s face and dress. 

“One of the robbers,” he said. 

“No, no,” protested the wounded man. “I am a 
loyal servant of Senor Valdez.” 

“Save your lies for the devil.” 

“Merciful God!” wailed the fellow. “You are 
not going to kill me?” 

“No,” said Neal. “I’ll leave you to others. Tell 
me what happened.” 

“We got ’em when they weren’t ready,” the fellow 
boasted. “But the devils fought even then. Killed 
ten or fifteen of the glorious army of freedom. 
They thought I was one and left me. But I came 
to directly.” 

“What of Senor Valdez?” Neal’s throat felt 
parched. 

“They got him, too,” said the revolutionist cheer¬ 
fully. 

“And—and”—Neal choked—“Senorita Maria?” 

“Ah,” the man had started puffing his cigarette. 
“El Capitan Espinosa had spoken for her.” Then 
bitterly: “Whether one fights for the freedom or 


REVOLUTION! 233 

for the damned government the capitans get their 
pick first.” 

There are a few people whose every resource of 
muscle and brain and nerve may be poured into one 
purpose. Neal was of that sort. The weird night, 
the blind hate, the horror of the silent dark strewn 
with dead bodies left him, as though blown away 
by a sudden puff of wind. 

He was instantly wary, resourceful, purposeful. 
He lighted a match and bent over the wounded 
revolutionist. 

“How badly are you hurt, my friend?” 

“Oh,” exclaimed the fellow, recognizing him in 
the flare of the match, “Senor Ashton.” 

“Yes, and you?” 

“I smoke your cigarettes and eat your good beef 
this evening.” 

“So,” and Neal felt luck was breaking with him. 
“You are one of Senor Marquard’s men?” 

“Si, siS 

“I am a friend of the senor general,” said 
Neal. “Tell me how you are hurt and I will help 
you.” 

“My leg is broken below the knee. There is a 
bump on my head and a cut in my left shoulder. 
But it amounts to nothing.” 

“Put your arm . out my neck. I’ll help you 
to my horse and get you to a doctor.” 

Two or three times Neal had thought he heard 


234 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


voices, half whispered, excited voices. No doubt 
it was some of the servants slipping back to see if 
the danger was passed. Those who had resisted 
and those found in the house had been killed. But 
of course most of the people on the ranch had 
certainly gone in hiding and had not been pursued. 

“How is that?” said Neal lifting the wounded 
man on his one sound foot. “Can you stand?” 

“Si, si.” 

There was a movement along the veranda above. A 
tall figure covered in a long black wrap stole stealthily 
to the rail and leaned over and peered down into 
the dim murk of the patio. 

“We better hop along now,” Neal said in English. 
“They’ll be coming back directly. Which way did 
General Marquard go?” 

“To the west, senor..” 

Neal had no intention of taking him to rejoin 
his company but had merely used that strategy to 
learn what he must know. 

Neal got him on his horse and mounted into the 
saddle. The fellow was behind and could hold 
on very well. 

“I will take you to my ranch,” said Neal, turning 
east. “You will be safe there, and your wound can 
be attended to.” 

“Muy bien,” exclaimed the fellow gratefully. His 
only desire was for a place to sleep and get well. 

“I am not a friend of Carranza’s,” said Neal, 


REVOLUTION! 


235 


“but it need not be known that you are a revolu¬ 
tionist. They will ask no questions at my ranch.” 

“The senor is an own brother to the most blessed 
saint.” The rough fellow spoke with devout grati¬ 
tude. 

Neal rode along at an easy gait. While he hated 
Espinosa he was glad in a way that Senorita Maria 
had fallen into his hands rather than some others. 
Espinosa wished to marry her, for he wanted to get 
possession of her father’s ranch. While he would 
stop at no brutality to force her, if it became nec¬ 
essary, at first he would pose as her protector and 
try to persuade her to marry him. That meant, 
thought Neal, that he had a little time—possibly 
several days in which to attempt her rescue. He 
was not rushing blindly now at death. He was 
scheming with all the cleverness of desperation. 

“I am no friend of Carranza’s,” Neal again re¬ 
peated as they turned down toward the Ranch of the 
Thorn, “but I am a friend of Senorita Valdez. 
And I am no friend of your Capitan Espinosa. 

Tell me which way they went and where I will 

most probably overtake them. I must find her.” 

“Ah, senor,” muttered the half-conscious peon, “it 
is always either the heart or the dinero that lead 
men to death. With you it is the heart. I do 

not blame you. The senorita, I saw her once—and 

I swear by the saints she is worth dying a thousand 
times for. I do not know where you will find them— 


236 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

but this I heard. Word came yesterday that the hated 
Carranza will try to flee. They expect him to try 
to escape by Veracruz. When the word came the 
senor general said we must ride west along the 
railroad. I think they expect to be on watch for 
the train.” 

“Very good.” Neal felt this was rare information 
*—almost providential. “You know the country. If 
Senor Marquard intended to attack the presidente’s 
train, where would you guess he would lie in wait?” 

“Ah, I remember now.” The fellow had a flicker 
of caution. “You swear you are not Carranzista.” 

Neal made the sign—and swore. 

“I will not tell the Carranzistas what you tell me.” 

“I heard the senor general mention the Canon 
of the Moon. It is ten miles beyond Velasco.” 

The gray streaks of coming daylight mottled the 
east as Neal and Blanco rode out from the hacienda. 

“You can bring the horses back from Cordoba,” 
said Neal. “I’m taking the train toward Mexico 
City.” 

“No, suh,” replied Blanco positively. “I ain’t 
gwine to bring no hosses back. You think I’s gwine 
to run that ranch with these heah rebels shootin’ 
up all the woodwork, includin’ the plaster? If you’s 
gwine up to Mexico City to have a good time, so’s I.” 

“But Blanco, I’m not going to Mexico City. I am 


REVOLUTION! 237 

going, as the poet says, right into the jaws of death. 
I may not have a very good time.” 

“Well, I reckon you’ll need somebody to snatch 
you out. I’ll go along. When it comes to running 
I’m a powerful good helper.” 

They left the horses at Cordoba and took the 
evening train for Velasco. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


ON THE TRAIL 


ERE is no color line in Mexico, and just then 



**■ Neal was perfectly willing to forget there ever 
had been one in Missouri. He was glad enough 
to have Blanco sit beside him in the first-class coach. 

Neal had been in great danger every day since he 
took possession of the Ranch of the Thorn, but some¬ 
how it had not impressed him deeply. He had gone 
about his work without any special consciousness of 
risk. He had never spent much time worrying over 
what might happen to him. But now he was going 
deliberately, swiftly, straight into danger, and he 
knew it. It is one thing to know one has a chance 
to get hurt, and quite another to know one has a 
very slim chance not to get hurt. 

As the train thumped along, already climbing the 
grade into the mountains, Neal’s eyes searched the 
passengers in the car, the train crew, looked out 
of the window, and then back to Blanco at his side. 

“Do you see anything wrong about this car?” 
he asked in an undertone. 

“You bet I does.” Blanco was glistening with 
black solemnity. 


‘What ? ,: 


ON THE TRAIL 


239 


“It’s goin’ the wrong way.” 

Neal grinned. Even in the tenseness of danger, 
his mind was not obsessed with gloom. 

“I mean,” he said, “do you see anything unusual 
in this car?” 

Blanco nodded. “I sees about fourteen of these 
here revolutionists with pistols in their shirts and 
knives in their britches.” 

“And the train crew is worried. They are on 
the jump at every sound. They are afraid the train 
will be wrecked.” 

Blanco gave a start. “Let’s get off.” 

“We can’t,” said Neal. “Anybody that should 
jump off this train now would get shot in the back.” 

The engine rumbled on, the wheels clicked over 
the joints in the rails. Through the jungle along 
the streams the broken foothills of the mountains 
slipped by in the dark. 

“Does you mind,” Blanco touched Neal timidly on 
the elbow, “tellin’ me just what it is we is goin’ 
after?” 

“We are going after Senorita Valdez.” Neal’s 
mouth shut hard. 

“And whar is she ?” 

“Somewhere in these mountains, the prisoner of 
Espinosa.” 

“Good Lawd!” Blanco’s forehead showed drops 
of sweat. “I’d ruther try to take a lamb away 


240 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


from a Bengaul tiger, than a lady from that devil. 
We shoah enough is headed for trouble.” 

“Yes,” agreed Neal. “And the worst of it, 
Espinosa is now a captain in the revolution, and 
he has told his men that I am a friend of Carranza’s. 
If they take us our lives will be worth about as 
much as two boiled beans planted in a hill.” 

There was a shrill whistle. Everybody in the 
car started nervously. There was a tension, an 
apprehension that feared danger in every move. 
The country knew the revolution had broken in the 
north, and the flames might leap out anywhere at 
any time. 

“What’s that?” Blanco’s mouth opened wide, his 
black hands clutched the back of the seat in front. 

“Nothing, except we are stopping at Velasco.” 

Velasco is a little mountain town of seven or 
eight hundred regular inhabitants and four or five 
thousand irregular ones. If the census should be 
taken just as the train comes in, and included the 
venders of carved sticks, tortillas, dulces, boiled 
eggs and roasting ears, together with the stray dogs, 
the population would be well into the thousands. 

It was nine o’clock in the evening when Neal and 
Blanco got off the northbound train, and were im¬ 
mediately set upon by women with pans and baskets 
and plates of food, and by wrinkled old men with 
curios, canes and umbrellas. 

Neal ran his eye over them and picked one that 


ON THE TRAIL 


241 


he guessed might be most communicative, an Indian 
girl, mixed with lighter blood, of peon class, but 
with an intelligent, good-natured face. She carried 
a bark tray of bead work—her own and her grand¬ 
ma’s handiwork—which she was offering for sale. 

“Blanco,” Neal said in English, “I am going to 
talk to that girl with the beads. You draw all the 
rest of this mob off, by pretending to want to buy 
everything. Buy a little from everybody that gets 
to you.” 

In a moment the negro was hemmed in five deep 
with venders trying to get to him. He was grinning 
from ear to ear, and joshing, and bantering, hugely 
happy. 

Neal had got the Mexican girl a little to one 
side—two or three others thrust things at him, but 
he waved them away. 

“Senorita,” his voice was soft as a high-bred 
Spaniard’s, “tell me how you make the beads.” Her 
eyes widened with interest and she began to talk 
very rapidly. 

“I’ll take this string.” He bought the one she 
held in her hand. “And this. How much?” 

“Four pesos, senor, muchas gracias.” 

“Senorita,” Neal’s voice dropped to a low con¬ 
fidential pitch, “did soldiers pass through here to¬ 
day ?” 

The girl looked swiftly about her, and then back 


242 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


to Neal and frowned doubtfully. He was not only 
a generous senor, but a very handsome one, and she 
wanted to please. 

“It is all right, senorita.” Neal guessed these 
people would be revolutionists. Mountain people 
usually are. “I am a friend of Senor General 
Marquard’s.” 

“Si, si,” she ducked her head with a quick nod. 
“They pass over there,” she pointed south, “about 
four o’clock. Some come to buy frijoles and tor¬ 
tillas” 

“Do you know where they camp?” 

“One who come to our casa said they camp ten 
kilometers west.” 

“In the Canon of the Moon?” 

“Si, si, senor.” Her eyes brightened with relief 
that he knew already. 

Neal started and turned away. She touched his 
arm. 

“Would not the senor like to buy this string of 
beads also? Muy bonito —for his sweetheart. Only 
two pesos.” 

Neal dropped two more silver dollars in her hands. 

“Keep them for yourself.” 

She gave him a flirting look with her eyes. 

“Your sweetheart thanks you, senor. You are 
more generous than El Capitan Espinosa.” 

“Was Espinosa here?” Neal turned back quickly. 


ON THE TRAIL 


243 

“Si, si —he beg peeg! He think he can kess 
everybody.” 

“What time was he here?” 

“About six o’clock, after the rest had gone.” 

“Was he alone?” 

“No—no. Four soldiers with him with many 

guns on them.” 

“Was there no senora or senorita with them?” 

She shook her head and rounded her lips as in 
a pout. 

“Is the senor pursuing the senorita?” 

Neal did not answer, but asked sharply: 

“Did you hear Espinosa mention a senorita?” 

She nodded and turned her head with an impudent 
sort of flirtation. 

“Yes. He say to me: ‘Your lips are sweet, but 
not so sweet as the beautiful Senorita Maria.’ ” 

“The dog!” The exclamation of hate escaped 
Neal. 

The girl lifted her brows. 

“And you hate him, too?” 

“Yes,” replied Neal savagely. 

She came a step nearer him—her face was just 
under his chin—glanced quickly about and spoke low: 

“Then I tell you where he camp. Just this side 
of where the ferrocarril —the railroad—enters the 
Canon of the Moon there is a great black rock 
on the south. He camps behind that rock.” 

Blanco was just concluding his tenth purchase, 


244 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


a dozen bananas this time, when Neal pushed through 
the crowd of venders and caught him by the arm. 

“Drop the stuff!” he ordered. “Come.” They 
pushed their way clear and struck off up the rail¬ 
road into the dark. 

“Blanco,” Neal said solemnly, “if you have ever 
hankered to die in a good cause your chance is 
coming to meet you to-night.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE PRESIDENTE'S SPECIAL 

DERNARD WILLIAMS had walked completely 
around the square of the Zocolo four times, 
pushing his way through the gesticulating, staccato 
crowds. Mexico City was in a ferment. Rumor 
spilled everywhere and increased the foaming un¬ 
certainty. It was known that six of the States 
had definitely joined the revolution, and perhaps 
others. It was suspected the minister of war was 
on the point of deserting Carranza. 

All the windows of the National Palace were 
alight—there were cabinet meetings, consultations of 
political leaders, and the coming and going of 
generals. 

Carranza, so the rumor went on the street, was 
still at his presidential desk up there in the center 
wing, laying plans for the annihilation of the revo¬ 
lutionists. But as none of the arrogant presidente’s 
plans had succeeded before, the crowds shrugged 
their shoulders, and laid wagers on his head. 

Obregon and his army of Yaqui Indians from 
the North were very near the city—just outside, the 
rumor said. Many thought the capital would fall 
to-morrow. 


246 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

Bernard Williams agreed with them. He was 
certain Carranza could not hold on more than four 
days at best. The big bulbous nose swelled with 
anger. He gouged his finger nails into his palms, 
and cursed under his breath as he shoved his way 
once more to the entrance of the Palacio National. 

For days Williams had used every stratagem and 
almost every peso in his effort to get to Carranza. 
The presidente had promised three times that he 
would sign the concession very soon. But to-night 
Williams still carried the papers in his inner pocket 
unsigned. 

He stood by the big arched entrance through 
which machines came and went and soldiers clanked 
back and forth. 

“A million—five million just there/’ He put out 
his big hand and clutched as though the money 
were in the air beside him. “And then the whole 
thing to go up like that,” he snapped his fingers, 
“for the lack of a signature. By hell,” he was almost 
crazed by his impending loss, “I’ll get to him yet or 
commit murder.” 

Three generals in gorgeous uniforms came down 
and a dozen minor officers with major decorations 
crowded around them. A score or more of im¬ 
portant-looking gentlemen came hurrying along at 
the same time. There was a jam in getting out 
of the entrance. A machine honked and honked, 
trying to make its way through—the generals and 


THE PRESIDENTS SPECIAL 


247 


the high-hatted statesmen crowded to one side. 
Two of the generals were jammed close to Bernard 
Williams. 

“Si” one of them was saying to the other in an 
undertone. “From the castle of Chaultepec at eleven 
o’clock.” 

The jam passed. The rumor spread that Carranza 
had not been in the palace after all, and the crowd 
began to scatter. 

Williams, turning aside, was wondering what that, 
“From castle at eleven o’clock,” meant, when a 
young American ran into him. 

“Hello, Williams.” It was a reporter from a 
New York newspaper. “Hear the latest?” 

“No—what is it ?” 

“The Kingdom of the Ass has fallen.” The 
reporter grinned irreverently. “They are making 
up a special down in the yards now. Carranza and 
all his cohorts, including a lot of the girls, are going 
to beat it from the castle at eleven o’clock, and 
hit the line for Veracruz, while the going is good. 
They have a ship there waiting for him. And 
between me and you,” the reporter punched Williams 
with his elbow, “I’ve got a tip that the old boy is 
taking all the real money of the republic with him 
—merely leaving his paper currency.” 

The news strung Williams’ nervous system on a 
network of barbed wire. 

“I’m going to be on that special,” added the 


248 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

reporter, “or die in the attempt. My Lord, what 
a scoop!” 

Williams felt the papers in his pocket. Even yet 
Carranza’s signature would make them legal. 

“So am I,” he said, grabbing the reporter by the 
arm so as not to get lost from him. “How will 
we do it?” 

The reporter had got several good stories out of 
Williams and felt that company at one’s funeral 
would not be a bad thing anyway. 

“Hanged if I know, but stick to me. I usually 
get there.” 

They got out of the crowd and the reporter 
grabbed the door of a car that slowed up at the 
curb, jerked it open, and shoved Williams in. 

“La Estacion Veracruz,” he ordered the driver. 

The machine shot out, miraculously dodging 
pedestrians that scurried about the street and other 
cars that skittered wildly here and there. 

The station loomed up, a solid, imposing struc¬ 
ture of English build, speaking of a permanence of 
rule and dividends that seemed strangely out of 
place in the wild night. 

In the yards engines puffed and backed with the 
click of couplings as coaches were shoved together. 

“This way.” The reporter dodged through the 
gate, unheeding the vociferous protests of the guard. 
Williams followed close on his heels. They raced 
down a side track to where a half dozen coaches 


THE PRESIDENTE’S SPECIAL 


249 


were attached to an engine. The reporter gave 
them a hurried inspection. 

“Wrong!” He cut off across the yards to where 
another train was being made up, a mixed train of 
box cars and second-class coaches. 

“Wrong again!” For a minute he stood baffled. 

“Good Lord, I can’t afford to miss that special. 
Where in the devil is it?” 

There was a ringing of bells, an engine came 
puffing up a side track on the far side of the yard. 
It was backing in as though heavily loaded. 

The reporter leaped across the rails, dodged ahead 
of two moving engines and made a run for this 
last train. 

There was a long string of cars, five Pullmans, 
three day coaches, three freight cars. But none of 
them were lighted. 

“Hurry,” the reporter called back over his shoul¬ 
der, “they are about to pull out on the main track.” 

The two men were alongside the train when the 
bell signaled to start. The reporter saw through 
the darkened windows of the Pullman figures mov¬ 
ing hurriedly back and forth. 

“We’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “Make a jump 
for it. As well get killed one way as another.” 

The vestibules of two Pullmans were still open, 
and other belated figures with grips and bundles 
came hurrying down the tracks and piled in. A 


250 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

lordly looking man in a top hat hurriedly mounted 
the steps. 

“Now!” the reporter leaped on. Williams fol¬ 
lowed, his foot on the lower step, his hand on the 
rail. 

The guard stopped them. Demanded in a hissing 
curse to know who they were. 

The reporter replied in a hissing curse for him 
to get out of their way. 

“We,” he said imperiously, “are the owners of 
the ship on which the presidente is to escape.” 

It was no time to examine passports—the guard 
let them by. 

The bell clanged more loudly. Two whistles—and 
the long train pulled slowly from the yard, gathered 
speed, and in twenty minutes the turbulent city of the 
Montezumas was left weltering in its own destruc¬ 
tion, while the presidente and his party sped toward 
the east and the sea. 


CHAPTER XXX 


STRATEGY WINS 

T HAT must be the Canon of the Moon/’ Neal 
stopped and pointed ahead to where the twist¬ 
ing, climbing railroad crawled into the gap between 
two very steep mountains darkly outlined against 
the star-flecked sky. “And there,” Neal looked off 
south until his eyes made out a blacker shape against 
a dark mountainside, “is the big rock.” 

“Mabbe so, mabbe so.” Blanco sat down on an 
iron rail and panted for breath. Ten miles of 
steady climbing is trying on lungs. 

“And them devils,” said the big negro lugubri¬ 
ously, “are lyin’ all around there thick as alligators 
in a bayou.” 

Neal’s eyes were measuring the distance and 
searching for some way of approach. They were 
up now five or six thousand feet above sea level. 
It was a helter-skelter world of shadowy canons, 
dark chasms, and broken mountains. To the east 
the dim starlight world fell away into a great, 
formless abyss. To the south the gaunt outline of 
Orizaba stood out against the stars. It was still— 
weirdly still. Blanco’s doleful voice broke the silence: 


252 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

‘‘Cheer, for we’ll nevah march to victory, 

Cheer, for we’ll nevah hear the bloomin’ canons, roar, 
Cheer-” 

“Shut up!” Neal snapped sharply. The thing 
sounded too cussedly probable to be funny. 

“Come on.” He left the railroad and turned 
to the south along the mountainside toward the 
big rock. 

After scrambling through chaparral and over 
rocks, and gashing themselves with cactus, they 
came upon a narrow road that led up somewhere 
from below. Neal stooped and felt the ground. 
It was freshly broken. Horses’ hoofs! They were 
on the right track. The revolutionists had passed 
this way. 

He touched Blanco and signaled for silence and 
caution. It was not needed. If Blanco could keep 
his teeth from hitting there was no danger of his 
making a noise. 

Neal slipped forward stealthily as though stalk¬ 
ing a tiger—it was more dangerous. This was 
Espinosa’s camp, and if they fell into the hands 
of Espinosa they would live just long enough to 
see the sun rise. 

Neal was acutely conscious of the danger; but 
he did not think of it as danger, but of failure. 
All the dull pattern of years of placid safety in 
Buckeye Bridge had been broken up and melted 
into the fiery passion for the beautiful Maria. All 


STRATEGY WINS 


253 


his life seemed poured into the one purpose of 
saving her from Espinosa. He must be wary and 
cunning for her sake. But he kept his hand on 
his gun; he'd rather die fighting than blindfolded 
with his back against a rock. 

The wind rose restlessly from somewhere in the 
shadowy depths below and came with a brief swirl 
and then passed on and died. A scream tore the 
night. Neal jumped and Blanco started to cry out, 
but choked it back to a gurgle. After all it was 
only one of those raucous-voiced night birds of the 
tropics which sound like lost souls entrapped. 

The road climbed toward the big rock, not two 
hundred yards away, and the shelter of trees fell 
away so they might be seen. 

Neal stopped. It was foolish to walk right 
straight upon death. What could be gained by it? 
And yet Senorita Maria was there, the prisoner 
of that brute. He ground his teeth and went on 
a dozen steps. 

“Stop!” Four soldiers rose up from the side 
of the road. 

“Buenas noches, senor.” Neal was astonished 
at his own coolness. 

They were caught. They would be shot here 
or taken to Espinosa. Neal meant if strategy failed 
to run for it, and touched Blanco’s foot with his 
as a signal to follow his lead. 

“Who is it?” asked the guard. Few revolution- 


254 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


ists have patience or ability to drill their men to 
strict military discipline. It is pretty much a matter 
of hit and miss. These were not trained soldiers. 

“A friend of General Marquard’s,” replied Neal 
readily, “with a message about the Carranza train.” 

The guards were much excited. Was Carranza 
really running away? Was the train coming? 
Would there be loot on it? 

“The message,” said Neal taking a cigarette from 
his pocket and lighting it, “is only for the general.” 
In the flare of the match he got a glimpse of his 
four captors. They were capable-looking fellows 
and had good guns, and were not off their guard. 

The leader asked the fellow beside him what he 
thought. The fellow replied dubiously. 

“We’ll take you to el capitan,” said the leader, 
“and he’ll send the message for you.” 

“The message,” repeated Neal decisively, “is for 

General Marquard alone. It comes from General 

Obregon and must not be delayed.” 

The guards parleyed in an undertone for a moment 
again still in doubt. 

“Anyway,” said Neal at a venture, “el Capitan 
Espinosa would be very angry at being disturbed.” 

“Si” agreed one of the guards, “it is so.” 

They were impressed by Neal’s knowledge of 

the name of their capitan and his habits. 

“The senor general,” said the leader, “is on 

the side farther west. I will go with you.” 


STRATEGY WINS 


255 


“Gracias, senor, it would be most kind,” replied 
Neal, “but I do not wish to make trouble for 
you. If you should leave the guard without per¬ 
mission would not that endanger your life?” 

The leader was again stumped and consulted his 
fellows. 

“Gracias, senor,” Neal deliberately started away 
with an utterly nonchalant air, yet with his hand 
on his gun. “We’ll find the way.” 

Two of the guards followed them down the 
road evidently in doubt whether to let them go, 
but reluctant to risk detaining them. 

Neal slackened rather than quickened his pace, 
but appeared not to notice they were followed. 
When they got back to the railroad he turned 
west toward the canon, and the two soldiers, 
seemingly convinced now that they were really 
messengers seeking Marquard, turned back toward 
their post. 

“We’ll go a little way,” said Neal, “and hide 
until daylight and then double back. There is no 
chance to do anything in the dark unless we know 
the lay of the land. Here,” indicating a spot where 
the railroad turned into the canon, “is a good place 
to hide.” They were still in sight of the big rock 
where Espinosa’s camp slept. Behind a clump of 
bushes a couple of rods north of the track they 
stretched out on the ground, Blanco to drop to 
sleep in five minutes, Nead to listen and to plan. 


256 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Lying there on his back looking up at the stars 
he took stock of his chances to rescue Senorita 
Maria and found them exceedingly slender. If 
Espinosa held her a prisoner in his camp, she 
would be closely guarded, for the big brute would 
take no chances of losing her now that she was 
in his hands. It was two men, both strangers 
to the country, against a hundred who knew every 
foot of ground for many miles. And if Espinosa 
had sent her away to some rendezvous in the moun¬ 
tains it would be all the more hopeless, for added 
to the danger would be the difficulty of finding her. 

Neal closed his eyes. He could see her as she 
stood before him in the garden that evening when 
she talked of the nightingale and the hawk. The 
flare of her personality, the exquisite fineness of 
her body and spirit, her perversity, and inimitable 
loveliness made her stand out in his consciousness 
as vividly as though she stood beside him. She 
was the very heart, the essence of all the night, 
of the day, of the winds and perfumes, of the 
whole universe. 

For that brute to lay his hands upon her! Neal 
sat up, his muscles cording until they ached. Never 
before had he known hate to the very bottom, 
nor wanted to kill a man. 

The night stillness was smote by a clink, a sound 
as though a hammer struck steel. It came 
again. Loud and vigorous, not a hundred yards 


STRATEGY WINS 


25 7 

up the track. Neal put out his foot and kicked 
Blanco in the ribs. 

“They are getting ready for Carranza,” he whis¬ 
pered as the negro roused up. “Tearing up the 
tracks.” 

“Yeah,” responded Blanco, “that gives us another 
way to get killed. Carranza’s soldiers will reckon 
we put the ties on the track.” 

“Espinosa on the east, Marquard on the north, 
and Carranza coming from the west,” summed up 
Neal. “We do seem pretty well boxed. But let’s 
lie low and see what we can see for a while.” 

Daylight came, and then the sunlight struck 
glintingly along the curving threads of steel below, 

“They have done a good job of it,” Neal said. : 
“They’ve torn up about ten rods of track.” 

“What’s ’at ?” The big negro rolled his eyes 
and opened his wide mouth. “ ’Pears to me I 
heard a bulgine whistlin’.” 

“You did,” Neal nodded. “A train is coming 
down the canon. Suppose it is Carranza’s ?” 

“Lawd forgive all my sins if it is,” prayed 

Blanco. “For I’s got a hunch, a mighty strong 

hunch, we’s goin’ to be dead before that sun is 

an hour high.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE CANON OF THE MOON 

F OR hours the presidente’s special had run cau¬ 
tiously, but continuously, stopping only once 
or twice for water. Everything had gone smoothly. 
They had crossed the wide, mountainous plateau, 
leaving Mexico City and its turbulent revolutionists 
far behind. 

Daylight had come and sunrise. The long train 
turned down the grade which drops five thousand 
feet in thirty miles. Perhaps no man’s eyes ever 
beheld a more magnificent spectacle than that which 
unrolled as the train crept down this daringly built 
road. 

“See, senor.” A high-bred Spanish gentleman 
with a pointed beard and dark, intelligent eyes 
touched Carranza’s arm and pointed out of the 
window—chasms and canons, and mountains with 
serried ranks of pines, and dashing waterfalls. “Is 
it not magnificent?” 

Carranza nodded, but his face showed only blank 
abstraction. They were at breakfast, and he was 
still bitterly resentful at America and Europe, 
at the revolution, at fate itself. That such a great 


THE CANON OF THE MOON 259 

ruler as he should be so little appreciated was 

damnable. 

“Yes,” he said gloomily. “It is a great railroad, 
but they have not paid taxes.” 

The dining car was filling—secretaries, high of¬ 
ficers, generals and colonels, and women still wearing 
evening finery. The special carried about three 
hundred adherents of Carranza’s. As the American 
reporter had predicted there were ladies present. 

They had drunk a good deal but slept little, 

so all of them looked a bit ashy in the early morn¬ 
ing. Yet, having gone so far in perfect safety, 
their apprehensions had begun to evaporate. Some 
one told a story, and laughter broke out. The 
spirits of the dining car began to lighten. They 
were going to get away to Europe, Spain, France, 
Italy or South America. Life was not at all 

unbearable. Didn’t the car ahead carry heavy boxes 
guarded by half a trainload of picked soldiers? 

In those boxes was gold—all the gold of the republic 
—sixteen million dollars! Ah, yes, there were good 
times ahead. The spirits of the breakfasters rose. 
They called for morning drinks, they exclaimed 
over the scenery, then damned Mexico and thanked 
the saints they were leaving it. 

It was a hastily made up nondescript train, but 
included about all the conveniences a presidente and 
his friends might want. There were two cars filled 
with saddle horses if they should need to ride. There 


26 o 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


was a flat car upon which the presidente’s three 
private automobiles were parked. There was an 
abundance of food and drinks, boxes of jewelry 
and trunks of hastily gathered clothes. And it 
was all protected by more than a hundred and 
fifty loyal soldiers, with generals enough to command 
an army division. 

Among the motley refugees were four Americans 
—three of them reporters, each of whom had 
fancied his clever stratagem in boarding the special 
meant a record-breaking scoop for his paper. The 
fourth was a large, red-necked man with a nose 
that swelled at the end like an adder’s head. And 
of the four he was the only one who had not 
slept. 

All night Bernard Williams had been importuning 
generals and colonels and secretaries and subsecre¬ 
taries, and even senoritas or senoras with hic¬ 
cups, to take him into Carranza. Each of them 
had promised him an interview as soon as the 
presidente arose. 

One, a private secretary to Carranza, to whom 
Williams had made lavish promises of fat positions 
in his American companies, came in as the train 
began its descent down the long grade. 

“Senor,” the secretary bowed, “the presidente 
is at breakfast. He will see you now.” 

Bernard Williams got up so quickly he stepped 


THE CANON OF THE MOON 261 

on the feet of the reporter in the seat beside 
him. Luck at last had turned to him. Ah, per¬ 
sistence and bravery did it! A surge of hope 
made him almost jaunty. 

“So long, fellows. What shall I ask the presidente 
for you?” 

“Ask him,” said the reporter whose instep had 
been bruised by Williams’ big, scrambling feet, “if 
he wants you both buried in the same grave.” 

Bernard Williams followed the secretary forward 
to the dining car, his heart thumping in time to 
the clicking of the descending train. His effort 
and money and long scheming had not been wasted 
after all. Carranza was still presidente, and his 
signature would make the concession as binding 
as though he were not eloping with the entire con¬ 
tents of the treasury. 

The secretary indicated that Williams was to 
wait, standing at the end of the dining car, while 
he took the papers to the presidente. 

Carranza looked down at the document the secre¬ 
tary obsequiously put before him, and scowled. 

“What is this?” 

“The most worthy concession, senor,” said the 
secretary, “of the loyal friend of the government, 
Senor Bernard Williams.” 

“Ah, yes,” Carranza spoke absent-mindedly, “I 
believe I did promise to sign this. What is it about? 


262 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

But it doesn’t matter now anyway. Give me a 
pen.” 

The secretary handed him the fountain pen which 
Williams had sent along with the paper. 

Carranza stretched the document out on the table, 
found the line on which he was to sign and took 
the pen in his fingers. 

Bernard Williams swallowed and held his breath. 
It would be over in ten seconds. 

“Senor,” the man with the pointed beard at his 
table, touched the presidente’s arm again, “this is 
the most wonderful scene of the entire trip.” 

The presidente laid the pen on the paper and 
turned to the window. 

“What is it, papa?” A senorita came across 
the dining car and stood beside the man with the 
pointed beard. 

“The Canon of the Moon,” he replied. 

Williams breathed a curse. You never, never 
could get them pinned right down to do it now. 
Oh, well, two minutes more, five—what difference? 
It was sure now. And yet he watched uneasily 
the viewing of the scenery. He knew that man 
with the pointed beard and the girl beside him, 
and hated them. 

The train dropped swiftly into the canon. The 
steep mountain sides, covered by serried ranks of 
pine, rose up steeply on both sides, so steeply that 
the canon was still in deep shadows. 


THE CANON OF THE MOON 263 

A jerk—the engine’s sharp whistle, the squeak 
of brakes. The train ground to a sudden ominous 
stop. All of them leaped to their feet and asked 
one question: 

“What is the matter?” 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE FLIGHT 

T^ROM 1 their hiding place Neal and Blanco listened 
* to the gathering roar as the train thundered 
through the canon toward the broken track before 
them. 

“I got a hunch,” Blanco shook his black head 
with a doomed air, “dem Carranza soldiers won’t 
leave enough of us for these heah revolutionists 
to shoot at.” 

“Cheer up,” said Neal, grinning. “They are not 
the best shots in the world and we have good 
legs.” 

But glancing back down the tracks he saw at 
that moment a detachment of revolutionists—Es- 
pisona’s men—lining up across the road to the east. 

They were trapped sure enough, and Blanco’s 
hunch looked like a real premonition. 

The train came in sight—a long, heavy train 
of sleepers and day coaches and box cars and flat 
cars, running cautiously. 

Suddenly the sharp whistle and the squeak of 
brakes. The engineer had seen the torn track in 
time. The train came to a stop scarcely two 


THE FLIGHT 265 

hundred yards from where Neal and Blanco crouched 
hidden in the clump of bushes. 

Heads appeared at windows, soldiers and guns 
bristled in the open doors of the box cars. The 
trainmen got down and came forward to view the 
gap in the road. The people began to ooze out 
of the coaches, a trickle at first; then when 
there seemed to be no danger they poured out like 
ants from a disturbed hill. Men in silk hats, and 
glittering uniforms, women in the flimsy finery 
of evening clothes, soldiers, porters, the large fat 
cook from the dining car. They were silent at 
first, apprehensive. But when no enemy appeared 
they began to talk and gesticulate. Their sharp, 
excited comments reached Neal and Blanco. 

“I wonder/’ mused Neal, “just what is old Mar- 
quard’s game. Surely he is strong enough to take 
the train.” 

He was looking off up the north side of the 
canon, trying to discover some movement among 
the pine woods. 

A white puff of smoke—a second’s wait, and 
then a boom that echoed across the canon. 

Instantly the passengers scurried like frightened 
ants, running this way and that. The shell had 
plowed up the earth fifty yards beyond the train. 

The soldiers formed in line hurriedly and aimed 
their guns up the canon side toward the invisible 
enemy. 


266 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Another long boom! The shell dropped clear of 
the train, down the track this time not far from 
Neal and Blanco. 

The soldiers fired up into the woods. Then came 
the rattle and scattering bang, bang, bang of rifles 
answering from the mountainside. The bullets 
spattered about the train. 

The wildest confusion broke out. Carranza, with 
two guards and several civilians, came out of the 
car, gesticulating excitedly. Men with axes hurried 
to obey. They hammered back the doors of the 
box cars, and horses leaped out snorting and flinging 
their manes. 

The animals were quickly saddled. Shots came 
intermittently from above, but were not very fatal. 
Only two men were killed and four or five others 
wounded. 

“More likely to hit us,” said Neal. “Look, they 
are breaking open the boxes of gold.” There was 
a rush to the car, and gold was spilled on the 
ground, on the steps of the car, across the rails. 
Men and women were grabbing—filling their pockets, 
holding up their skirts to be loaded. Even soldiers 
left the line to fill their pockets with the gold. 

“I don’t see,” thought Neal, “why Marquard does 
not rush them. He could take the whole bunch 
now with a hundred men.” 

But the firing had not increased. Every few 


THE FLIGHT 267 

minutes the small cannon sent a shell thumping 
down, but each time it missed. 

“They are getting on horses,” said Neal. “They 
are going to try to beat it through the mountains. 
And look there! Those men are trying to get an 
automobile off that flat car. By thunder—those 
are Americans!” 

“Bless the Lawd!” exclaimed Blanco. 

“They are going to try to run it back up the 
railroad,” surmised Neal. 

“Let’s make a run for it and jine them,” pro¬ 
posed Blanco. “I’d as soon die runnin’ as lyin’ 
down.” 

“No.” Neal stopped him. “Don’t run, but walk. 
Everybody shoots at a running man. We’ll just 
mosey up there as though we belong.” 

The Carranza followers weer too excited to pay any 
attention to a couple of unarmed stragglers joining 
their party. 

Neal climbed on the box car beside the auto¬ 
mobile. The three sweating Americans also took 
them for fellow passengers of the ill-fated special. 

“Hello,” a white-haired chap said to Neal. “Didn’t 
know you was on. Lend a hand here—let’s skid 
this thing down. We got enough gas to get her 
away from here.” 

“We are American newspaper men. Put up a 
white flag. Maybe they’ll lay off us.” 

Blanco was pushing and pulling with all his 


268 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


might; he let go and jumped every time the cannon 
boomed. 

“I’s got a hunch/’ the negro said as the car 
moved down the skids, “that I’ll nevah live to ride 
in that thing.” 

“Pile in, fellows,” ordered the reporter as the 
car came to some sort of balance on the side of 
the dump. “I’m going to try to climb her out 
of here.” 

Blanco, who had disappeared, came rushing out 
of the dining car with a Pullman tablecloth. 

“Will dis do for a white flag?” His teeth 
chattered. “It shoah is the littlest tablecloth I 
evah saw.” 

“Get on top of the car and begin to wave it,” 
ordered Neal. “And,” he turned to the chap at 
the wheel, “you better be moving before the crowd 
down there sees what we are up to, or they’ll 
swamp us.” 

Blanco was standing up, waving the tablecloth. 
The cannon boomed again—he dodged. There fol¬ 
lowed the rattle of rifle shots. Blanco rolled his 
eyes. 

“Good-by, sun—I’s got a hunch I’ll nevah see 
you again.” 

The three reporters and Blanco were in the car. 
Neal still stood with his foot on the running board 
looking toward the escaping Carranzistas. The 
white-haired reporter was pushing on the self-starter. 


THE FLIGHT 


269 

A large man with a bulbous nose came dashing 
along the embankment with a paper in his hand. 

‘‘Damn it to hell, he got away without signing 
it after all ! ,y he cried, scrambling into the machine 
so hastily he fell over a reporter’s knees. As he 
righted himself he saw for the first time the man 
standing on the footboard. His mouth opened, 
his face worked. He almost screeched as he thrust 
jabbingly at Neal. 

“There is the man that beat me out of my ranch!” 

The car was slantingly on the dump, and Neal 
was on the lower side. For a minute he looked 
into Williams’ contorted face, and grinned sar¬ 
donically. 

“Get in,” ordered the reporter at the wheel as 
the engine began to hum. “Wait until I’ve saved 
your lives before you birds kill each other.” 

But as the car started to move slowly, Neal 
made a sudden fierce grab, caught Bernard Williams 
by the coat collar with both hands and gave a 
yank that almost upset the machine. He and Wil¬ 
liams went tumbling down the embankment as the 
automobile climbed onto the railroad bed. 

With a yelp of despair at the sight of the moving 
car Williams tried to scramble up the bank. But 
Neal tripped him. 

“No you don’t. You go with me to find that 
precious partner of yours—Espinosa.” 

Neal looked back. The party on horseback, with 


270 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

a line of soldiers before and on each side of it, had 
started up the shoulder of the mountain. Three 
of the riders were women. And one! He stood 
staring as though daft. No, it could not be a 
likeness! It was Senorita Maria! 

As Williams got to his feet, the automobile 
was a hundred yards away, gathering speed as 
it bumped along the ties of the railroad. He turned 
to curse Ashton, but Neal Ashton was fifty yards 
in the other direction running desperately after the 
Carranza party on horseback. 

Bernard Williams climbed up the bank and stood 
teetering on the end of a tie, looking up the 
track and down, utterly at a loss which way to 
run. 

The small cannon on the side of the mountain 
boomed and he jumped, slipped and fell, skinning 
his knee on the iron rail. He got to his feet, 
his heavy face twisted with pain, cursing blindly 
all the gods there be, especially those that be over 
Mexico. Yonder through the timber rode away 
with the fleeing presidente his one last chance of 
a fortune. Up there on the mountainside popping 
away was a very excellent chance for an untimely 
death. When a man’s life achievement is merely 
a pile of twisted schemes, one solid, unexpected 
thump of reality may send it crashing down into 
the canon of broken things. 

Bernard Williams had nothing left—nothing but 


THE FLIGHT 


271 


his life and his legs. He started to run up the 
steep grade, panting as he ran. Behind him there 
was a fresh outburst of rifle fire from the side 
of the canon. He looked back and the revolutionists 
were swarming down from every side upon the 
train like ants upon a crippled beetle. 

Williams stopped, out of wind. No one seemed 
to be pursuing him. They were too busy. They 
were pounding at doors of a freight car with the 
butts of their guns. Two soldiers grabbed up a rock 
between them and swung it against the unyielding 
oak door. There was a surging back and forth. 
The crowd gave way. Somebody had got an ax. 

The door was chopped down. Soldiers scrambled 
over each other to get in. A heavy box rolled 
from the door and dropped beside the track. They 
smashed it open and everybody rushed in grabbing, 
scrambling, fighting. Other boxes were thrown out 
—twenty or thirty. Soldiers and stranded pas¬ 
sengers left behind by the fleeing presidential party 
swarmed upon them. 

“Gold!” Williams’ throat grew dry. His eyes 
gloated. That reporter was right. Carranza was 
fleeing with all the gold in the national treasury. 

He turned and trotted back down the track, 
puffing and sweating. Twenty boxes were open. 
Gold coins spilled upon the ground lay scattered 
on the gravel roadbed. Soldiers had dropped their 
guns, thrown them away, and were stuffing their 


272 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

pockets, knotting the yellow stuff in handkerchiefs, 
filling their hands. Women left over by the fleeing 
party, women whose trade was for gold, gathered 
their laps full of it and went staggering away, 
where to, they did not take time to think. Men 
waddled off, their loaded pockets dragging their 
trousers almost to the losing point, their coats 
sagging heavily, their hands filled. 

Bernard Williams dived in. Nobody took time 
to ask him any questions or give him any orders. 
There was plenty of gold for everybody. It was 
merely a matter of getting away with it. He 
filled his pockets feverishly. Directly the officers 
would regain control of their soldiers and the gold 
would be carried away and buried for the good 
of the revolution. But now it was a free-for-all. 

Loaded in every pocket as much as the cloth 
would stand, and with thirty pounds more of gold 
coin tied up in a bag made of his coat he once 
more started back up the track. Others similarly 
loaded, were hurrying along in the same direction, 
hoping they might get to a town and find a train 
that would take them back to Mexico City. 

Bernard Williams made surprising headway for 
a heavy man. He had, he guessed roughly, nearly 
twenty thousand dollars on his person. All was 
not lost. If he only got safely back to Mexico 
City with this there was much ahead. 

When he had climbed as long as his muscles 


THE FLIGHT 


273 


would endure, he left the track and hid for two 
hours in a thicket of chaparral. But he did not 
dare sleep. It was one o’clock in the afternoon 
when he began to climb again. 

By sundown he had left behind all the others 
who had started toward Mexico City with their 
stolen treasure. His belief in his luck came back. 

“By hell,” he stopped and mopped his face on 
his shirt sleeve. “I am going to make it after 
all.” 

The sun was cut off by the higher mountains 
to the west. The long shadows across the mesas 
and canons to the east signaled the coming of 
darkness. Williams began to look about for a 
good hiding place for the night. 

The road was steep here, and the mountainside 
almost barren. But ahead yonder a few hundred 
yards was a dark cluster of cedar in a little sag 
to the left of the track. He gathered his wind 
for a final sprint. 

But dark came swiftly. The stars were glittering 
in a black velvet sky before he reached his hiding 
place. Once he stopped and peered ahead uneasily. 
It seemed to him there was something on the track 
—might it be a hand car coming down? He got 
from between the rails and walked on the ends of 
the ties. The thing, he decided, was not a hand 
car. It might be merely a dark splotch of spilled 
tar on the track or an optical illusion. Anyway 


274 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


it was beyond his clump of cedar where he would 
hide for the night. 

He found the shelter a good one—a wind break 
as well as a hiding place. And by wriggling his 
back in the sand he made for himself a fairly 
comfortable bed. 

He stretched out. But the hip pockets filled with 
gold coin bothered him. He sat up and emptied 
them carefully, laying the gold in a pile on a rock 
near his right hand. 

Thank Heaven for a chance to rest from this 
load. He stretched the cramp in his muscle and 
started to lie down again, but his back met some¬ 
thing—something pointed, round, cold. His blood 
froze as though his veins were pipes of ammonia. 
The thing in his back was a gun. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

IN THE ENEMY" S CAMP 

TV/HEN Neal overtook the fleeing presidential 
W party only a fragment of Carranza’s guard 
remained. Most of the soldiers had scattered in 
the woods, preferring to take their chances alone. 
Now that the gold was being left behind why follow 
Carranza anyway? 

Of the thirty or forty who remained loyal, twenty 
marched behind to protest the presidente from pur¬ 
suit. Neal joined these. He told them he belonged 
to the presidential party as an interpreter. They 
gave him a rifle and he became one of the guard. 
The going was rough and they had no difficulty 
keeping up with the horsemen. Anyway Carranza 
had no desire to outrun the remnant of his guard. 

That Neal was in most desperate danger was 
obvious. Espinosa must be the leader of the attack, 
and the hunger of Espinosa’s heart was to put a 
knife in Ashton’s. 

Besides Marquard, who had originally suspected 
Neal of being in league with Carranza, would be 
certain of it when he found him among the guard 
of the fugitive presidente. 

And that they would be captured by the revolu¬ 
tionists was about as certain as that a tree will 


276 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

fall when chopped down. Neal knew that Marquard 
had a strong following, and the mountains and 
pueblos and crossroads and ferries would all be 
in the hands of his people. 

No, there was not one chance in ten thousand of 
their escape. Yet Neal was buoyantly happy. Seno- 
rita Maria rode yonder and death stalked behind, and 
he was between them. This was the supreme 
romance. 

At four o’clock in the afternoon they had made 
twenty or thirty miles. The country was wild and 
broken, and they were angling across the foothills 
toward the sea, where the fleeing presidente hoped 
to get some kind of boat. 

Neal was surprised that they had not long since 
been overtaken by the revolutionists. Undoubtedly 
Marquard and Espinosa had enough men to attack 
them anywhere with safety. Of course they had 
stayed to loot the train. But for hours he had 
expected to see them close in pursuit. Yet not a 
man had appeared. 

They had turned down the east slope of a moun¬ 
tain—the way was fairly open and the tired horses 
were spurred to greater speed. For a mile Neal 
and his fellow guards had to scramble along almost 
at a run to keep up. 

The party ahead came to a sudden stop. 

“What is it?” Neal asked a fellow guard as 
they came near. 


IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP 


277 


“They have met peons and are asking the way,” 
the soldier replied. The guard came up close. 

Carranza and his generals were talking to a 
half dozen nondescript fellows on foot—peons. The 
spokesman of the strangers was a squat, heavy 
fellow, wearing a wide straw hat, dressed in cotton 
trousers and sandals, with a coarse striped zapote 
over his shoulders. Both he and his fellows were 
unarmed. That is, if a Mexican is ever unarmed. 

There was something familiar, Neal thought, 
about that squat Mexican. The movement of his 
arms, the sound of his voice recalled something. 

He had it! It was Marquard in disguise. 

The recognition sent Neal’s heart pumping so 
hard he felt the blood in his temples. The wily 
old fox was leading Carranza into a trap. Neal 
understood now why they had not been attacked 
before. Obregon doubtless had ordered that Car¬ 
ranza be captured alive. He had no wish to have 
the blood of a presidente charged up against him. 
So Marquard, who hated Carranza because of his 
murdered father and brother, had purposely failed 
to capture him alive. The presidente had escaped 
from his train into the fastness of the mountains. 

Now an unarmed peon band met the fleeing party 
and offered to guide them safely through the moun¬ 
tains and down to the sea, and Marquard, disguised, 
was the leader of that band! 

Neal knew what that meant to Carranza. But 


278 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


there was no way to prevent it; already the party 
had accepted the guidance of Marquard and his 
men. Neal was not much concerned about Carranza. 
But Senorita Maria and her father, and Neal 
himself! What of them? 

Marquard obviously hated Valdez as a friend of 
Carranza’s. And now he would find Neal march¬ 
ing with Carranza’s guard! And Neal was certain 
now that Espinosa was lurking somewhere not far 
away in charge of Marquard’s whole army. 

So wrought up was Neal’s mind with the danger 
ahead, that he stumbled twice over boulders and 
fell, once bruising his leg, and again skinning his 
arm. But he was scarcely conscious of the smart, 
or the blood that trickled down the leg of his 
trousers. 

If he could only get word to Valdez and his 
daughter to break away from the party. No use 
to warn Carranza, not while that wily old fox 
Marquard led the way, his eye on every movement. 
There was no escape from him. 

While Neal still battled in his mind for some 
loophole that offered a glimmer of hope for him 
to escape with Senorita Maria, he noticed the 
party was being led down a narrow peninsula of 
land that ran out onto a very sea of deep, wide 
canons. The neck of land narrowed and narrowed. 
It was timbered with pine, but glimpses through 


IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP 


279 


the trees both to the right and left showed abysmal 
shadowy depths on either side. 

Night was coming. At the very end, where 
the narrowed bit of land dropped off sheer into 
nothingness, they came to an Indian village—a 
semicircle of a dozen small adobe houses, their 
backs to the canon, the doors facing inward. The 
village had been built no doubt for defense; it 
could be attacked only on one side and that down 
the long, narrow ridge along which they had come. 

The horsemen had stopped and were looking 
over the vast canons with evident uneasiness. Neal 
and his guard came close before halting. Neal 
heard the wily old Marquard saying with shakes 
of the head: 

“A thousand pardons, senor, but I missed my 
way. We should have turned to the east, at the 
waterfall, ten kilometers back. But it is night now 
and the way is very dangerous and hard to follow. 
We must camp here, where the senor presidente 
will rest in comfort until morning.” 

The party assented. They could do nothing else. 
The presidente took possession of the largest of 
the houses, a two-room adobe that stood at the 
end of the village at the edge of the precipitous 
chasm. Senor Valdez and his daughter were given 
the one next to it. And the generals and officers 
were quartered in the others. The soldiers were 


28 o 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


to camp at the edge of the pine woods just outside 
the village where they could guard the only approach. 

Marquard and his peons took one of the old 
abandoned buildings across from the soldiers’ camp 
and built a fire in the earthen oven and began the 
preparation of supper. 

Neal sat by the fire the soldiers were building 
and looked moodily toward the village. Already 
it was night, the great wide canon was full of 
blackness, and the little adobe village seemed swim¬ 
ming in a vast emptiness of dim starlight. 

Neal yet did not know what move would be 
less dangerous. Only he had marked well the 
hut in which Senorita Maria had entered. What¬ 
ever came he would be on guard there to live or 
die with her. 

He wondered what time the wily Marquard would 
bring up his troops. Would he kill everybody? 
Or would they rush the camp? The general had 
not recognized Neal, at least had not seemed to. 

Some sort of supper was improvised; all ate 
hastily and in almost silence. 

Then the village was still and in darkness. The 
weary fugitives were quickly asleep or at least 
resting. Fear hung so heavily over some they 
could not sleep. 

The soldiers had stretched out on the pine needles 
—all asleep but three, posted as sentinels. Neal 
still sat by the smoldering fire and waited. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

THE AVENGING SHOT 

jVTEAL was waiting for deeper sleep to fall on 
* the camp. Before dark he had sauntered about 
the village and along the rim of the canon that 
hemmed them in on three sides. The most effectual 
w r all in the world is a thousand-foot hole. They 
were shut in and no mistake. The face of the 
canon was almost perpendicular. Not even a moun¬ 
tain goat could go down that wall. 

Only at one place, near the north end of the 
village, did he discover a narrow path that led 
over the edge of the rim. This path found a 
perilous way along the face of the wall for fifty 
yards and there it appeared to end in empty space. 
Neal guessed it led to a cave or a spring, but he 
did not dare explore it. 

Pie had watched the horses tied and had fixed 
in his mind the three he could get most quickly. 
But among the many impossible plans that he tried 
out in his mind for the escape of Senorita Maria, 
this one of riding away was the most hopeless. 
The woods across the narrow strip of peninsula 
north of the camp were alive with Marquard’s and 
Espinosa’s men. Marquard would take no chances 


282 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


on Carranza’s escape, and Espinosa would run no 
risk of Senorita Maria slipping through his net. 
Yet, of course, if all other things failed and it was 
a last throw with death, Neal would get Senorita 
Maria and ride for it. 

His most feasible plan, however, the one on which 
he hung most hope, was a direct and frank appeal 
to Marquard to spare Senor Valdez and his daughter. 
But Espinosa complicated this plan. Also Marquard 
would be strongly suspicious of Neal when he dis¬ 
covered his presence in Carranza’s camp. 

Yet he was determined to try this first. If it 
failed, he would get warning to Valdez, and when 
the attack came, would endeavor to slip him and 
Senorita Maria down the path in a possible chance 
of hiding. Altogether it was a very desperate 
situation. 

It was deep dark now in the pine woods, and 
the canons were seas of inky blackness. The adobe 
huts, crude ancient symbols of shelter and protection, 
squatted close to the earth in the vast, infinite stretch 
of faint starlight. 

The peon guides had eaten their supper and 
their fire burned low. The squat one got up and 
stirred it and spoke to two of his men, ordering 
them to go bring more wood. 

The two fellows went off slouchingly, saying as 
they passed the Carranza sentinels, that they were 
going for wood. 


THE AVENGING SHOT 


283 

Neal watched their movements closely. Back there 
within gunshot of the camp were undoubtedly 
soldiers resting on their guns awaiting orders from 
their commander. He guessed these two wood 
gatherers were messengers. 

They were gone fifteen minutes. When they 
returned bearing arms full of dry pine limbs, Neal 
caught a discrepancy in their size. The two who 
had gone out were about of a height—as they 
came back, one stood fully six inches taller than 
the other, and had huge shoulders and arms. 

They threw a few sticks on the fire, and the 
tall one sat down by Marquard. One of the sticks 
flared up and Neal got the outline of the big 
Mexican's head and face. It was Espinosa. 

Neal's chance for an appeal to Marquard was 
gone. If Espinosa knew he was in camp his 
life would not be worth a pinch of fog. While 
the two across the way were deep in a low-toned 
consultation, Neal got up and moved away from 
the camp of sleeping soldiers. He stopped with 
his back against the wall of the first adobe house, 
where he could not be seen in the shadows, yet 
could watch the movements of Marquard and Es¬ 
pinosa. 

They got up directly and approached the three 
Carranza sentinels on guard. Whether they were 
already traitors to the fugitive presidente or whether 
Marquard’s low imperative tone frightened them into 


284 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


silence Neal did not know. But the three silently 
handed over their guns to Espinosa and marched 
off into the woods with the squat Marquard. 

Things moved swiftly then. Espinosa gave a 
word to the five revolutionists supposedly sleeping 
by the fire. They were up instantly and each had 
found a gun. 

Among the pine trees dark forms began moving. 
Marquard was back with his army, slipping on the 
sleeping soldiers of the hated Carranza. The skir¬ 
mish would be brief. 

Espinosa left the group by the fire and came 
down the street toward the adobe house. “He is 
going for Senorita Maria!” thought Neal. 

He passed within ten feet of Neal in the shadow 
of the wall. Neal drew his gun and slipped after 
him. 

Espinosa heard his step and turned quickly. 

“I’m general Marquard’s interpreter and secret 
agent.” Neal disguised his voice and spoke in a 
low, confidential tone. “I will .show the senor where 
the presidente sleeps.” 

“Bien!” Espinosa's suspicion was allayed. “And 
where Senor Valdez sleeps.” 

“Si, si,” assented Neal. But the big Mexican 
was on his guard and steped back for Neal to 
walk in front. He led the way to the second adobe 
hut. 


THE AVENGING SHOT 


285 


“This is where Senor Valdez and Senorita Maria 
sleep,” he announced stepping back from the door. 

“I wish to speak to them a moment,” said 
Espinosa. “Stand guard.” He stepped up to knock 
on the heavy wooden door. But before his knuckle 
touched the wood the round barrel of a pistol 
touched him in the back. 

“Raise your hands!” Espinosa instantly obeyed. 

“I am Neal Ashton.” The words and the quiet, 
deadly hate in the tone made the chills play along 
the back against the muzzle of the gun. “If you 
don’t obey exactly and silently I’ll kill you. 

“Turn to the right. Go between these houses. 
Now close to the rim. Not too close, you fool, 
that is a thousand feet straight down.” 

Marching him before him, Neal forced the Mexi¬ 
can down the narrow path that he had discovered 
along the face of the cliff. 

Very slowly Espinosa felt his way along that 
narrow ledge, clinging to the wall with his left hand. 
He was trembling so his legs were in danger of 
giving way, for this uncanny devil back of him 
was dangerous. 

The path did not lead to a spring, but to a small 
cave in the rock wall where the villagers had at 
times hidden provisions. 

Neal took Espinosa’s pistol and belt from him 
and pitched them over into the canon. 

“Sit down—your back this way.” 


286 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Espinosa felt cautiously with his hands to make 
sure it was safe to sit down. At last he had 
settled himself securely on the ledge, his legs stick¬ 
ing out over the abyss. 

“Stay there/’ ordered Neal, “until I order you 
released. I’ll leave a guard at the top who will 
shoot if you start up.” 

Neal hurried back up the path to the top. His 
bluff would hold the frightened Espinosa for a 
time at least, and now he must get to Marquard 
at once. 

The village was full of dark, silently moving 
figures. Marquard had taken the sleeping soldiers 
without a shot—without even arousing Carranza’s 
friends in the huts. 

Neal followed without being questioned. They 
were all alike in the dark, and they took him for 
a revolutionist. 

They moved toward the lower end of the village— 
to the large house nearest the point. A low, sharp 
order. They halted. 

Neal was near enough to see the dark figures 
forming in a semicircle in front of Carranza’s hut. 
There was an empty space of twenty yards in 
front of the door. The men in the street became 
still. 

One dark figure crossed that space and stood 
before the door, a low, squat figure, carrying the 


THE AVENGING SHOT 287 

accumulated hate of many wrongs. He raised his 
fist and knocked on the door. 

The street was still, not even a foot shuffling. 
The knock could be heard a hundred yards. Neal’s 
heart was pounding like the throbbing of a pump. 

Slowly the heavy door swung back—a dark gap 
in the wall—a figure in night robe stood out 
imperiously. 

Neal looked off at the stars, so far, far away 
that a soul must get lost in the windy spaces of 
eternity before it reached them. A wind stirred 
from the darkness of the canons and went moaning 
off through the pines to the north. 

Twenty heartbeats seemed an age. 

“What is wanted?” A voice in the doorway was 
angry at being disturbed. 

The dark, squat man struck a match and held it 
so the light fell on Carranza’s face. 

“Only to see how you are resting, senor.” 

Twenty guns flamed at once. Their reverberations 
ripped the wide empty night for a moment, and 
then stillness and blackness. 

“Next,” came the savage command of the squat 
general. 


CHAPTER XXXV 

SAVED! 

T HE firing squad shifted a dozen steps to the 
left and formed in front of the hut of Senor 
Valdez and Senorita Maria. 

Marquard himself stepped up and knocked on 
the door. It opened, and Senor Valdez stood out¬ 
lined in the darker shadow of the doorway. Mar¬ 
quard started to strike a match. With a fierce, 
half-stifled scream, Senorita Maria sprang past her 
father and stood in front of him. 

“You shall not kill him!” 

Neal broke the hypnotic nightmare that held him 
and leaped forward into the open space in front 
of Senorita Maria. 

“Senor Marquard, I have a message for you.” 
“Who are you?” the revolutionist demanded 
angrily. 

“Senor Ashton of the Ranch of the Thorn.” 
“The message can wait,” said Marquard. “Stand 
aside, my friend.” 

“The message cannot wait,” Neal said emphatically. 
Turning to Senorita Maria and her father: “Go 
back into the house, I must speak to the general.” 
They obeyed and closed the door behind them. 


SAVEDl 


289 

Marquard caught him by the arm and Neal felt 
the power of the fellow, felt also anger in that 
g ri P- 

“If this is a trick your life will pay for it.” 

“Let it be so,” replied Neal. “The message is 
for you alone.” 

“Withdraw,” Marquard ordered his firing squad. 
They rested their guns and backed away twenty or 
thirty yards. 

“What is it?” He faced Neal. “Interrupting 
a general’s vengeance is dangerous business. Is 
it about the boy?” 

“The boy is well,” replied Neal. “I left him 
sleeping—curled up in my bed. The message is 
from Obregon.” Neal had in his pocket a printed 
proclamation issued by the general. “He orders,” 
Neal said impressively, “that no unnecessary blood 
he shed. Those who commit violence will be held 
to strict account.” 

“But these are enemies of the republic.” Marquard 
had felt shaky about the death of Carranza. He 
had intended to kill him regardless of consequences, 
but now he realized there might be consequences. 

“Your enemy is dead,” Neal spoke impressively. 
“Is not that enough?” 

“But these are friends of his,” protested the 
squat general. 

“Make them friends of yours and Obregon’s; 
then perhaps you will be forgiven for killing Car- 


290 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


ranza. Senor Marquard,” Neal's tone changed to 
one of friendly appeal, “you are a great fighter— 
a brave man—you have killed the one man who 
had wronged you. Senor Valdez never fought 
you nor the cause. He is unarmed; at your mercy. 
Senorita Maria is more to me than life. If Senor 
Valdez and she are attacked I, your friend, shall 
die with them and little Jose will cry in the 
night for his dead friend.” 

The Mexican’s passions are not all hate. They 
as swiftly run to love and sorrow. The squat 
general was moved more by the thought of his 
little Jose crying over the death of the Senor 
Ashton than he would have been by the fall of 
a kingdom. 

“I shall spare Senor Valdez and his daughter,” 
Marquard said impulsively, “because my good friend 
wishes it.” 

“And the others, senor,” pleaded Neal. “Spare 
them at least until General Obregon can pass judg¬ 
ment on them and absolve you from blame.” 

“We will see.” Marquard sighed. “At least we 
will wait until to-morrow.” 

“Shall I not take a guide and a few soldiers and 
ride with Senor Valdez and Senorita Maria to¬ 
night?” Neal knew that by and by Espinosa was 
going to get up courage enough to creep back up 
that path—and his arrival would complicate things. 


SAVED! 291 

“As the sehor wishes.” Marquard called three 
soldiers and ordered that horses be saddled. 

Sehor Valdez and Senorita Maria did not know 
why they were brought from the hut but expected 
they were to be shot. Nor did they know as they 
rode away into the pine woods under guard what 
was to happen to them. Two men rode in front, 
and two behind. Senorita Maria thought she rec¬ 
ognized one of the men who rode behind. 

When they had ridden for some miles in safety, 
Valdez spoke to his daughter: 

“Perhaps I was wrong about Sehor Ashton. He 
seems to have saved our lives.” 

Her breath came sharply as though the very 
name stabbed her. 

“A traitor,” she said fiercely. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


AN UNEXPECTED REBUFF 


HERE are few tortures more intolerable than 



to be compelled to stay awake when nature cries for 
sleep. Neal sat stiffly on his horse holding to the 
saddle while they went on and on and on through 
the woods. For two nights he had not slept, for 
two days he had been on the rack. But they did 
not dare stop now. He had not escaped with 
Senor Valdez and Senorita Maria. They had only 
begun to escape—were offered merely a chance. 
He had to reckon with Espinosa yet. When 
Espinosa came up from the cliff and found that 
he and Valdez and the senorita had gone, seven 
devils would break loose in him. He would 
even quarrel with Marquard. Yes, Espinosa would 
be in pursuit, if he was not already on their trail, 
and they must go as far to-night as human endurance 
would permit. 

At daylight Neal still clutched his saddle and rode 
numbly ahead. But he saw Senorita Maria reeling 
on her horse. She had not said a word, but the 
girl must be at the point of collapse. 

Neal called a halt as the sun came up. They 


AN UNEXPECTED REBUFF 


293 

were on a mountain slope with ground covered in 
pine needles. 

“We’ll rest here a while.” The words came thickly. 
“You stand guard.” He indicated one of the least 
exhausted soldiers. Neal felt a remote impulse to 
go forward and help Senorita Maria alight, instead he 
tumbled upon the ground and was himself asleep in 
half a moment. 

Neal was first to awake. It was afternoon. Even 
his sentinel had been asleep for hours. 

He went up the side of the mountain two or 
three hundred yards to where he could look back 
on their trail. It was a miracle that Espinosa had 
not already overtaken them. If Espinosa came, it 
would be very difficult. The Mexican soldiers recog¬ 
nized him as their captain, and he would pretend to 
have later orders from General Marquard, to take 
charge of Valdez and the senorita and to shoot 
Neal. 

They were coming! Neal had not reached the top 
of the mountainside before he saw six soldiers riding 
through the woods. 

It was Espinosa’s picked band and they were on 
the trail. Neal could have got away. But nothing 
was a temptation to him that endangered Senorita 
Maria. He turned and went back down to his 
sleeping camp. He made his resolve quickly. He 
would have his gun ready. If Espinosa attempted 
to take them prisoners, he would kill him—it no 


294 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

doubt would cost him his own life, but at least that 
would free Senorita Maria from Espinosa. 

He did not even arouse the rest, but stood be¬ 
side a tree a little way from the sleepers and waited 
the approach of the band. As they came nearer he 
failed to recognize Espinosa among them. His heart 
began an evener beat. He might beguile the rest. 

“Buenas tardes, senors,” he said as the six drew 
up and stopped. They all saluted him as they would 
an officer. 

“From whom do you come?” Neal had his hand 
casually but handily on his gun. 

“From the senor general,” replied the leader. He 
dismounted and came forward. 

“We are at Senor Ashton’s command,” he said 
with a gesture of deference, “to help protect him and 
his friends.” 

Neal suspected a trick. This was the work of 
Espinosa. The villain was keeping in the back¬ 
ground until Neal should be disarmed. 

“But where is El Capitan Espinosa?” Neal looked 
scrutinizingly at the Mexican. 

The fellow shrugged with both shoulders and 
threw out his hands, a gesture that indicated the 
worthy captain was in a bad way. 

“He is over the bluff.” The Mexican shook his 
head. 

“How?” Neal gasped. Had he fallen off the path? 

“The senor general,” he went on to explain, 


AN UNEXPECTED REBUFF 


295 


“find many letters with Carranza. One of them from 
Espinosa. Espinosa say in letter, he a very good 
friend of the presidente—that he is spying on Senor 
Marquard and his followers. He say that one of 
Marquard’s very best friends is the Senor Ashton 
of the Ranch of the Thorn, and he ask Carranza 
to send soldiers and kill the Senor Ashton.” 

Once more the soldier shrugged and lifted his 
brows. 

“And the senor general when he read the letter 
say, ‘Ah-ha, now we know who is our friends. Go 
pitch Espinosa over the bluff and then follow Senor 
Ashton and see no harm come to him. He very 
good friend/ ” 

They had food and then rode on. For the first 
time in many days the threat of impending danger 
was lifted. The sun glinted through the pine woods 
and fell on the yellow bark. The smell of the 
warm pine needles under crunching hoofs of the 
horses filled the air. 

Neal, riding along behind Senor Valdez and 
Senorita Maria, could not help but glow at the 
thought of that deep gratitude they were feeling for 
him. During the night they had, perforce, ridden 
in silence. There had been no chance for speech 
since. But now that danger was past and they were 
at ease, he would ride up alongside of them directly. 
The senorita’s eyes would meet his and tell him what 
her lips could never tell. 


296 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 

“It is not very far now I think, senor.” He 
had drawn up beside Valdez. 

“Perhaps not.” The reply was cool, the eyes of 
the senor straight ahead. Neal looked to Senorita 
Maria. She was sitting very straight and did not 
so much as glance toward him. 

Neal felt a hot flush of embarrassment, followed 
by a chilling sense of calamity. There was some¬ 
thing in her mind between them. Was it a mere 
whim or suspicion, or was it a revulsion of feel¬ 
ing? She had told him for one brief moment she 
loved him, but often it happened, so he had heard, 
that women’s hearts as well as minds change sud¬ 
denly and unaccountably. 

Twice more Neal assayed to make conversation. 
But the merest civility from Valdez was the only 
response. Not a word or a look from Senorita 
Maria. 

He dropped back and rode beside his guard. 

Not again until they drew rein before the gate 
of the devastated Hacienda of the Star did they 
speak. Valdez turned to the soldiers: 

“Senors,” he said, with a sad, fine dignity, “I 
thank you for your escort. Such food and refresh¬ 
ments as my servants can supply will be at your 
disposal.” 

He turned to Neal. His eyes were troubled, 
the color left his face a mottled gray. Danger 
and suffering had told on him. 


AN UNEXPECTED REBUFF 297 

“Senor,” he said in a detached tone, “I owe you 
two debts. Because of the one I cannot repay the 
other. It is better that we never meet again. Adios!’ 

Neal, dumfounded, started to protest, to insist 
on explanations. But the senor already had turned 
his horse in at the wide, open gateway, and there 
was something so final and unapproachable in the 
proud still figure that the young man closed his 
lips and turned in pained appeal to Senorita Maria. 

Her eyes met his this time very straight. The 
fire in their black depths seemed to freeze him. 
She was pale, her lips pressed together bloodlessly. 
So tense was she that he saw the pulse beat at her 
temple. 

“Senorita Maria \” The name came almost as a 
cry of appeal. 

Her lips parted in scorn, her nostrils dilated, and 
the eyes grew more intensely black. For a second 
her lips appeared about to form a withering word, 
but she turned her horse swiftly and rode after 
her father. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


MRS. KRIDER VISITS 



T two o’clock that night, his brain weary 


** wrestling with the problem, utterly bankrupt in 
heart and totally exhausted in body, Neal fell asleep 
in his own bed. 

Mrs, Krider came to his room three times during 
the morning to see if he was ready for food. At 
four o’clock she went back and he still slept. She 
felt his forehead to see if he had fever, but it 
was cool and moist as a child’s. Little Jose slipped 
to the door a dozen times. 

At last toward sundown Neal roused up. There 
was something the matter. Even in his drugged 
sleep some great depression had weighed him down. 
He sat up on the bed, tired, weary in muscle 
and in spirit. Romance—adventure—all the life 
of the tropics, the color of a strange land, had 
come to dust. 

Mrs. Krider stood in the doorway. 

“Good Lord!” she said sharply; “I thought you 
were going to sleep until Judgment Day.” 

Neal managed a crooked smile. 

“I wish I could, and right on through.” 


MRS. KRIDER VISITS 


299 


“What is the matter ?” The red-headed widow 
came in and sat down on a chair and rubbed the 
corner of her apron between her palms. “Disap¬ 
pointed because you did not get killed ?” 

“Something like that,” replied Neal. “How is 
the ranch ?” 

“Just the same as when you went off on that 
fool goose chase.” 

“I wonder,” Neal was surprised that he could 
remember so far back, “if Blanco was killed.” 

“Hardly!” Mrs. Krider snapped. “Not unless 
a black ghost can eat a half gallon of beans. He 
came in yesterday and told me all the fool things 
you been doin’.” 

She bit her thin lips and frowned blightingly a 
moment. 

“Why a man should fall in love with one of these 
black-haired, black-eyed she-devils is more than I 
can guess.” 

Neal shook his head sadly. 

“You haven’t seen Senorita Maria, Mrs. Krider.” 

“Well, what’s the matter? Did she get killed?” 

Again he shook his head. 

“Mrs. Krider, I’ve discovered that turnin’ the 
world upside down, as you say, don’t get you very 
far—only far enough that one frown or one sting¬ 
ing thought will send you tumbling clear over the 
precipice into the chasm.” 

She arose. 


300 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“You better stay in bed a day or two; I’ll send 
up your supper.” 

Two hours later a red-haired, sharp-boned widow 
sat in a patio at the Ranch of the Star, facing a 
very slender, dark-haired girl with a face so white 
she seemed to have lost all the blood in her 
heart. 

“Senorita,” Mrs. Krider’s voice offered no margin 
of diplomacy, “what’s the row between you and 
Senor Ashton?” 

Senorita Maria gasped quickly, as though stabbed. 
Her eyes looked so large and dark they were almost 
luminous. 

“The senor is a ver’, ver’ wicked man,” she said; 
“so—so—traitor.” 

“They all are,” assured Mrs. Krider. “Senorita, I 
know men. They are a bad lot. They are liars and 
hypocrites and bullies. They are mean and yellow. 
They will say nice things to you and then betray 
you. I hate all of ’em. If you are goin’ to hate 
all of ’em then it is all right. But you don’t look 
to me like a girl that could. You look to me as 
though you’d have to have a man on the brain 
or your heart would evaporate. Now let me tell 
you. If you want a man, you won’t find one that 
will beat Ashton-” 

“Ah, but senora!” It was almost a cry again. 
“He betrayed us. He led bandits here! He helped 



MRS. KRIDER VISITS 


301 


kill our people! My father was gone. I hid; when 
I crept back to see our poor people hurt and dead 
he was there”—she rose and pointed dramatically at 
the spot—“helping one of the bandits escape.” 

Mrs. Krider got to her feet. 

“Well, senorita, he may have done that and a 
good deal more and still be the best man I’ve ever 
seen. I’m not recommending him. He may be a 
traitor, as you say. But he is fool enough to love 
you so much it makes your heart ache to look at 
him.” 

The senorita’s face flamed as the red-haired widow 
left. 

“He es a fool—to have sent her” 

Senorita Maria sat quite still, her e) 7 es looking far 
off. In the poise of her exquisite head, in the slight 
bending of the neck, in the faint quiver of her lips 
was a wistful loneliness that extinguished the flame 
of her anger a few moments before. 

She got up and passed from the inner patio 
through the hall and into the garden. There was 
nothing fierce and regal in her movements now. 
Her shoulders drooped and she carried her head 
as though it was heavy with tired problems that 
never could be solved. 

Drifting restlessly about she stopped now and 
again beside a brilliant cluster of blossoms, but 
seemed not to see them nor sense them. Her eyes 


302 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


turned oftenest to the fast dying flame of red on 
the sky back of snowy Orizaba. 

The light went swiftly as always. She lifted her 
face to the stars, her lips shut close to still their 
quivering. Then with a new and sudden resolve 
she turned hastily and went in. 

“Where is father?” she asked Tia Alicia in the 
hall. 

“Reading in the library.” 

Maria went to him. But Senor Valdez was not 
reading. Instead, he sat straight in a high-backed 
chair staring fixedly at a portrait of a fierce Spanish 
ancestor on the wall. 

Maria went to him and sat on the arm of the 
chair. This was an informality that always shocked 
the Senor’s dignity, but secretly warmed his heart. 

“Is there trouble, daddy?” She looked at him 
affectionately. His stern figure and fierce eyes some¬ 
how made her want to cry. 

“No, no,” he denied positively. “The government 
is restoring order. The new presidente is doing 
very well. There is hope for the country, and the 
Hacienda is being brought back into shape after the 
revolution.” 

“But our poor people,” said Maria, “that were 
killed—they cannot be brought back.” 

“Perhaps they would not want to be,” said the 
senor who never showed emotion for either living 
or dead. 


MRS. KRIDER VISITS 


303 


Senorita Maria sat silent looking down at her 
hands that locked about her knees.. She slowly 
swung her foot. The senor frowned, but she did 
not see. Her thoughts were elsewhere. 

“Daddy,” Maria spoke slowly, “was there ever 
anywhere in all your books a traitor who was a 
good man?” 

“No!” Emphatically. There was no scorn deep 
enough for Senor Valdez’s feelings for a traitor. 

“But, daddy,” Maria had thought much over this, 
“might a man not seem like a traitor to us, and 
yet not be a traitor in his own heart?” 

“A traitor is a traitor.” 

Another silence. Maria’s foot ceased to swing. 
Her eyes lifted from her hands and rested a long 
time on an open book, face down, on the table. Her 
father had been reading his beloved “Don Quixote.” 
And she had laughed at the very traditions to which 
her father clung. Was it not odd, she thought, that 
one could love that which so contradicted one’s 
professed standards. 

“Daddy”—the girl held her breath a moment be¬ 
fore venturing the question—“if a man wanted us 
killed why would he save our lives afterward?” 

Senor Valdez’s face flushed and then grew gray 
about the temples. His lips shut hard, he got up, 
brushing by Maria on the arm of his chair, and 
walked the length of the room. 


304 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


“You are thinking again of Senor Ashton.” He 
said with a cold fierceness. “The man I cannot kill 
because I owe him our lives. 

“He came and we received him as a friend. He 
plotted with the revolutionists and had come to spy 
out our weakness. He sent the son of the hated 
Marquard himself to see how we were guarded 
and how best to attack us. 

“Did not you, yourself,” he turned his eyes ac¬ 
cusingly on her, “see him carrying away one of the 
robbers ?'” 

“Yes.” She drew a breath that made her chest 
ache. “But I wonder if always we can tell what is 
in the heart, by what we see.” 

“I have forbidden him to ever enter our gate.” 
There was dangerous finality in the old Spaniard’s 
tone. “It is enough.” 

“But, daddy”—once again the girl strove to find 
some possible explanation—“at first we liked Senor 
Ashton.” 

“We liked the man he seemed to be.” 

“And if we discovered he was really that man?” 

“Impossible!” 

“But if we did?” 

“Then indeed would we be in debt to Senor Ash¬ 
ton, having so cruelly wronged the man who was our 

friend. But-” He shrugged violently as though 

to throw off a thought that had haunted him. “We 



MRS. KRIDER VISITS 305 

did not wrong him—he is a traitor to hospitality 
and friendship/’ 

Maria slipped out. In the patio she stopped by 
the tree under which he stood that first night. 

“He doubts,” she was thinking of her father, “or 
he would not be so pos-i-teve.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


UNDER THE STARLIGHT 

A FTER romance is shattered there is work. After 
** loss and failure and bereavement there is work— 
always work, thank God. If the necessity for work 
were removed, the race would perish in two centuries. 

Neal had much work to do. The cane was all 
ground and the sugar sold. The corn was in ear, 
and the food crops done. But coffee was beginning 
to ripen. 

After an early supper Neal walked out up the 
road that skirted the coffee fields. He walked a great 
deal these days—sometimes even after fourteen hours' 
hard work, he walked for miles, that he might be 
so tired nature would force sleep. He was forever 
thinking of her when awake. 

He turned aside into the coffee field. The promise 
of a big crop was being fulfilled. The bushes were 
loaded and the earliest berries had begun to turn 
red. They would begin to pick next week. On 
the same bush are ripe berries and berries half 
grown, so several pickings are required. He must 
see that the pulper and the drying machine were in 
order. 

Thus another one of his long-desired hopes was 
to be fulfilled. Coffee from his trees, coffee that he 


UNDER THE STARLIGHT 


307 


had seen a white sea of blossoms last April now 
reddening like berries on the bush, soon to be 
gathered and pulped and dried and polished and put 
in bags and sent to the far corners of the earth. 
Men beside camp fires along the wild unfrequented 
ways, and men at the doors of little homes in shel¬ 
tered valleys, and men in rough overalls coming home 
to their rude shacks, and men in mahogany rooms, 
alike would catch the aroma, the incense of rest and 
refreshment, and their old dreams would troop back 
to mingle with a sense of present good. Ah, the 
fragrant smell of coffee, his coffee, from his trees, 
would stir men’s hearts in a thousand ways. 

But as Neal walked on among the low trees he 
forgot his own coffee—thinking of her he had lost. 

The stars came out and the soft light of an early 
October night was diffused through the dark trees. 

There was the sound of horses’ hoofs on the 
road. Neal smiled—Blanco going to town. Blanco 
had seemed to have much money to spend at 
Cordoba since his escape from the wrecked Carranza 
train. Neal guessed where it had come from, but 
asked no questions. 

The new government was running smoothly, and 
Neal had read that day in a Mexico City paper, with 
grim satisfaction, that one Senor Bernard Williams 
had been put on a ship at Veracruz and expelled 
from the country. Taking out of Mexico just what 
he had brought in—one rather shabby suit of clothes. 


3 o8 THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Neal turned back toward the road. He must 
walk a long way to-night for he was as restless 
as a spirit detached from its body. 

He stopped and put out his hand and clutched 
the limb of a coffee bush. Something was moving 
among the trees—quick, darting movements this way 
and that as though looking for some one. It was a 
woman—a girl, tall, slender, and in a light dress, 
with a mantoon about her head and shoulders. His 
fingers closed on the limb, crushing a handful of 
coffee berries in his hand. His heart beat until 
it hurt his side. 

The figure stopped—not twenty steps away. Was 
he seeing a ghost? 

“Senor.” It was the softest of calls, but he 
would have heard it a mile away. 

“Yes, Senorita Maria ?” He started toward her. 

“Oh!” she cried, coming forward with an 
eager, darting movement. “You are here!” 

She stopped a few feet from him. All the hurry, 
the quickness of movement went from her. She 
stood in that easy relaxation of perfect grace and 
turned her face up toward the sky. 

“Such a lovelee night!” Her tone and gesture 
was as though they were back in her own garden 
months ago. 

“Yes.” Neal’s heart seemed turning over and 
over in its jubilance. “It is the loveliest night since 
the world began.” He waited for her to continue. 


UNDER THE STARLIGHT 


309 


“Senor,” her tone was playful but had a touch 
of pathos in it, “I’m so ver’ bold a girl, ef my 
father and Tia Alicia knew, they would perhaps tie 
me up forev-ar. But the senor has not come for 
so ver’ long, I wonder if he might be angry at 
poor little me.” 

Neal laughed with sheer exultation. 

“You are delicious! Why, don’t you know I came 
twice and you even refused to let me in at the gate?” 

She tilted her head flirtingly. 

“Ah, senor”—her voice dropped into a troubled 
earnestness—“that was when I had ver’ black 
thoughts.” 

“About me?” 

“Yes,” she nodded. He saw the white throat 
swell as though chokingly. 

“A long time ago,” she broke off a twig of the 
coffee limb from a bush and picked at the berries 
with her fingers, her head bent, “they told me the 
senor was an enemy in disguise—a traitor. I do not 
believe it here,” she touched her heart. “But here”— 
the tips of her fingers went to her forehead—“et 
sounded true. And poor little me cry in the night 
because my head and my heart they quarrel so much. 
Then the bandits came and killed our poor people 
and I hid for my life. After they go I steal back. 
My father had gone to Mexico City and I was 
alone. On the balcony I hear voices down in the 


3io 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


patio. One was the senor’s voice—I always know 
the senor’s voice. Et said to one of the bandits: 
T must get you away before they come back.’ Then 
I know.” Her face grew very tragic in the starlight. 
“The senor had led the bandits to our ranch. He 
was a traitor—and I hate hem, oh, so ver’ fiercely!” 

She stopped and looked up again at the stars. 
Her face was pale in the dim light. How much 
she had suffered! 

“But by and by,” the slender senorita spoke slowly 
as to the stars, “some one told me he was not guilty, 
but so ver’ good man.” 

“Who told you?” He had held himself in control 
until she had finished. He wanted to see deeply into 
her heart while she was serious. 

The reply came very low—almost a whisper. 

“My heart, senor.” 

“Your heart,” he said slowly, “was right, Senorita 
Maria.” And he explained how he had ridden to 
the ranch that night to try to save her and how 
the wounded bandit had told him she was captured. 
And then of his fearful search for her among the 
revolutionists. 

When he finished she moved a step nearer him. 
A moment her dark eyes were raised appealingly 
to him—then she turned her face away. 

“And I so ver', ver’ sorry,” she touched her fore¬ 
head again, “that my foolish head believe the senor 
a traitor. I tol’ you so long ago that a girl she 


UNDER THE STARLIGHT 


3ii 

have no brains. Senor, I do not desarve to be 
forgiv’.” She pursed her lips and shook her head 
solemnly. “I should go and do a ver’, ver’ long 
penance. I should let my hair down over my eyes, 
and walk with pebbles in my shoes, and be ver’ 
sorrowful until I old, ugly woman. And when I 
die and they put a board at my grave which say: 
‘She believe a ver' bad lie about the most kind and 
most wonderful senor/ ” 

She slyly lifted her head and looked at him side- 
wise. 

Again he laughed, but there was something far 
deeper than merriment in it—a happy, tender caress- 
ingness. But he still held himself back. 

“So you shall/’ he said. “No doubt your father 
will see to it that you do penance when he knows 
you come to visit a man he hates.” 

“Oh, but no. He always think the senor ver’ 
wonderful man. He hate Senor Williams because 
he try to wrong senor. He es ver’ fond of the 
senor.” 

“Then why-” 

“Oh, because I tell him the Senor Ashton a 
traitor.” Another shake of the head. “I ver’, 
ver’ wicked girl—I tell such bad lies.” 

The senorita had, so casually as not to be noticed, 
taken a little step now and again until she was 
nearer Neal—quite near—in possible reach of his 
arms. 



312 


THE RANCH OF THE THORN 


Neal stood and looked at her in silence for a long, 
exquisite moment. She had the pride of generations 
of high-bred Spanish tradition. She had broken 
it to come to him! There could be no greater meas¬ 
ure than that! And she had surrendered with such 
whimsical dearness. The soft wind, full of autumn 
fragrance, came through the trees. His heart rose 
until it seemed to fill all the night spaces with infinite 
happiness. 

"Senorita,” his tone sounded mockingly gruff, "you 
have been a very, very wicked girl. And you must 
be punished most *severely. It will take—let me see, 
ten, twenty kisses to-” 

When they could speak again she lifted her chin 
and looked up slyly into his face. 

"Et es ver’ nice penance—I guess I be wecked 
some more.” 

"Don’t you dare,” he said, holding her threaten¬ 
ingly tight. "For, Maria, dear,” his voice was very 
tense, "I love you so much—I love you.” 

A little later as they walked to the road, she 
put out her free hand to brush a limb. 

"When do the senor begin to pick the coffee?” she 
asked. 

"Right after our wedding,” he replied. 

"Oh—so soon!” she mused, "day after to-morrow. 
The hawk, I think he will not have very long to fly.” 


THE END. 




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